


Delightfully Chaotic.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: And I fail at tagging, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Insane amount of fluff really, Kisses, M/M, Smut, Some angst, Some dom/sub undertones, but individual chapters are tagged with important info :D, okay this collection has pretty much a list of everything happy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-09-19 11:05:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 24,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9437345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: It's a collection of small Rinch fics or fic-lets, inspired by tumblr posts or ask games. Almost all of them are John and Harold being domestic, ranging from G rated to Explicit. Mostly fluff though. I have a NEED to write rinch fluff at times, and I need to have a place where I can justify posting these. Every chapter will have description on top. (I only have a few yet but I feel like it would keep adding up)





	1. Blanket Hogger

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely self indulgent. Also because I don't want these little snippets to get lost. I hope you guys enjoy reading these even slightly as much as i enjoyed writing these.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold is a blanket hogger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightwolfslair asked "Who hogs the blanket."  
> G-rated. Fluff.

John wakes up feeling cold… again. Because of his training, he always wakes up clear headed and all at once, conscious of his surroundings. Right now, he is in his loft, the windows showing it was still dark outside save for streetlights. John sighs and stares at the ceiling for a few seconds before turning around and staring at the blanket hogger.

Harold’s face is peaceful in sleep, his brow unwrinkled and his lips parted a little. He snuffles a bit and moves slightly, curling the duvet around himself more securely. Finch doesn’t even move a lot in his sleep, because finding a comfortable spot is hard enough when he is awake. How he manages to hog the blanket sure and often is a mystery. In the mornings, he always denies any such thing happening, and acts affronted that John could even joke about this. And John will let him believe it.

For now, he just gets comfortable, moving a bit so he is facing his partner who is now in possession of all of cover, and feels a warmth suffuse inside his heart because he has _this_ , because he is allowed _this_. To look at Harold without his layers, physical and not, and is trusted… loved. He swipes the hair away from Harold’s temple with his fingertips, and decides it isn’t that cold after all.


	2. Wants.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who suggests new things in bed?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightwolfslair asked, "who suggests new things in bed."  
> Explicit rated: Collaring mention, d/s. Dom Harold.

Mostly Harold, because John doesn’t think it’s his place to ask.

“John? What’s your opinion about shibari?” Harold asked while they were at library, in between discussing their current number, as if it was nothing out of ordinary.

“Uh.” John stuttered, his heart in his throat.

“If you don’t like it…”

“No, no. I do. I do… I just, you caught me off guard, that’s all.” John reassured vehemently, and a beautiful smile graced Harold’s face at that.

* * *

 

“John?” Harold asked, while John has a ball gag between his lips, and his body wrapped in red rope, crisscrossing artfully around his sinews.

“uh-huh.” John made a vague affirmative sound.

“Would you mind terribly if I took a few pictures?” Harold asked, gesturing towards the camera John normally used to spy on the numbers. John’s eyes widened, drool spilling from the edge of his mouth.

“It’s just that, you look so gorgeous. It would be a shame for the image to be preserved in something as fickle as memory.” Harold explained, and now how was John going to say no to that.

* * *

 

“John?” He was so close, so close, just a couple of more strokes and we was going to spill. Harold thinking he could ask a question, and John would be able to understand right now was insane. But then, he stopped the blissful movement of his hand and John opened his eyes to pay attention.

“John?” Harold asked again.

“Y-yes.” His voice was rough and shaking.

“Would you be averse to trying orgasm denial?” He asked, innocently, as he resumed his slow, and methodical process of undoing John. His thighs were trembling, his body strung tight like a bow, but Harold had asked a question, requested something. There could always only be one answser. “Anything you want Finch. Anything.”

* * *

 

But it didn’t mean John did not want. He wanted, oh so much. Harold was washing John’s hair while he was in bath, still loose limbed from their play. His fingers felt blissful as they massaged shampoo in his scalp, the slightly fruity scent making John think of summers and happiness.

“John?” Harold asked quietly, the sound only permeating John’s thoughts because it was Finch’s. He just titled his head a little to stare at Harold’s face bent over his from where he was perched on the side of the tub.

“Why do you never ask for anything?” He asked, curious.

“I-…” John tried to piece together his thoughts, but then he just shrugged, deciding he wasn’t coherent enough to come up with an answer.

“Okay, different question. Do you want anything? Anything at all, I will give it to you. You only need to ask.”

John closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. He didn’t know if he should, if he had earned it. But Harold was asking, asking him what he wanted. He could stay quiet, and Harold would let the question go, but the truth was… he wanted to tell him.

“Anything?” He asked for reassurance.

“Anything my dear.” Harold promised, his finger pads massaging his scalp in a rhythmic manner that made him feel safe.

“A…” John had to swallow around the fear closing his throat… the longing. “A collar.” He asked, and then bent his face into his chest, wanting to hide.

The fingers in his hair stilled a bit, and his heart sank. And then Harold’s froth coated hand pressed up on his chin until his face was tilted up, and he felt a kiss on his forehead.

“Of course John. Of course. I will order one for you today.” He vowed.


	3. Unprompted massages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightwolfslair asked, "Who gives unprompted massages."

“Mr. Reese, wha-.” Harold startles, when he feels fingers touch the back of his neck.

“Shhhh.” John murmurs, as both of his hands lie on Finch’s shoulders, and his thumb digs into the aching muscles at the base of his neck. “You slept at the table again, didn’t you?” He chastises.

“There was work.” Harold protests, as he sinks back into the chair and lets John work his magic.

“There always is. Doesn’t mean you should neglect your health.” He feels lips press against his hair lightly, and sighs. “Thank you.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” Finch knows he means it too. John loves giving unprompted massages as much as Harold likes receiving them.


	4. Too much heart.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crying at movies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thedisreputabledog asked "Rinch+ who cries at the movies"

I think it’s mostly John, because Harold is too intellectually appalled at the improbabilities of the things.

_Spock rushes and rescues his mother, brings her to the edge of the cliff along with the other elders so they could be beamed up, and just as Chekov starts the energizing process, the rock crumbles under Amanda’s foot crumbles and she falls. Spock shouts and materializes on the space-ship with his hand extended to catch the only thing that means the world to him._

John realizes that his cheeks are wet. He didn’t remember when a few tears escaped his eyes, but the anguish on Spock’s face spoke to him. Quickly, he wipes it away, dreading the raised eyebrow look Harold would give him to tease, or worse: the understanding one that would make him feel raw and exposed.

He glances towards the man in question and sees him gaping at the screen.

“Harold?” He asks cautiously.

“I don’t understand…” He sounds so confused that John pauses the movie.

“What?”

“If the red matter was going to ignite and create a black hole when it came into contact with matter, why did they have to dig that hole? The surface would’ve done just as well.”

John collapses back into the couch and groans.

* * *

 

Jack is dead. Rose lives, until she dies too, and as her spirit moves through the old ship wreck, memories growing and bringing it back to life as Celine Dion plays soulfully in the background, John isn’t even ashamed of the tears on his cheek. Everyone cries on titanic.

“I still think Jack could’ve fit on that door.” Harold decides, smug, as he crosses both his hands across his chest.

“It’s just a movie Harold.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t be factually accurate.” Harold gives him a look full of disdain, and John laughs because he is just too adorable.

* * *

 

But it depends on the movie though.

_“Scar! Brother! Help me.”_

_Scar straightens his back, proud, and then sinks his sharp nails into Mufasa’s struggling paws, hissing a sinister “Long live the king.”_

_Simba screams as Mufasa falls down the cliff, to his sure death._

John wraps an arm around Harold’s shoulder and brings him closer, letting him turn and hide his face in John’s shoulder. He can feel his shirt get a little damp. Finch always gets emotional at Lion King. John can also feel his own eyes stinging, so he rubs his hand up and down Finch’s arm, reassuring them both, as he watches simba calling for help, begging his dad to wake up and lifting his father’s paw to get under his arm when all else fails.

* * *

 

One time, they watch Hachi: A dog’s tale in cinema. They don’t talk about it. They don’t mention how red and puffy both their eyes are, or how they both feed bear under the table the entire week. John rubs behind it’s ears and buts his head with bear, his tears absorbing in it’s fur; Harold buys Bear a new squeaky chew toys, a new collar, and a new and extremely expensive dog bed. At night, they both unanimously decide to make an exception and get their dog to sleep on bed with them instead.


	5. A little help.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Shaw helped Rinch become real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [xLostLenore](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xLostLenore) asked "who made the first move?"  
>  G rated. Fluff.

Waiting in a small restaurant, waiting for the duo, all Carter had to do was take look at them and her eyes widened. Really?

She raised an eyebrow at John meaningfully, having learned to communicate with him nor-verbally over the years. Her lips stretched into a wide grin when John avoided her gaze.

Wow. Really!

“I am guessing congratulations are in order,” she said in lieu of hello, and grinned when she Harold blush. “You sure took your time. Couldn’t you have gotten it together a month back and let me win the bet?”

Both the men suddenly looked up at her with wide eyes.

“What?” John exclaimed.

“There’s a bet?” Harold asked aghast.

“Of course there’s a bet. It’s the only way we could deal with seeing you two mooning at each other and not want to choke ourselves,” then she noticed the agent lurking behind the two, sipping on a juice box, “Afternoon Shaw. How does winning feel?”

“Feels familiar,” she winked, and sucked a large gulp of the drink.

Harold turned around towards her and opened and closed his mouth, as though he felt betrayed that his agent would bet about his love life. How cute.

“You must be feeling pretty damn smug about it though. One more week and the pool would go to Fusco.”

“I am just happy for both of them, that’s all,” Shaw took a long sip from the straw, made a disgruntled face and shook the box, before throwing it carelessly. It landed in the bin.

Somehow, Joss doubted that. There was a smug aura around the girl that she wanted to prod and question, but that could wait till later. Right now, she wanted details. She waited until they settled in the chairs, John and Harold taking the seats opposite of her while Shaw coming to sit at her side, by the window.

“So,” she clapped her hands and wriggled in her seat, facing the two of them. “Give me the scoop?”

“Scoop?” Harold’s voice was disapproving. Joss secretly loved riling him up.

“Yep. The whole exposé, and don’t leave out the juicy bits. Who made the first move? How did it happen? Were there tears involved? When’s the wedding?” Only part of it was a joke. She wondered if she should be concerned about how interested she was in someone else’s love life, but shrugged away the thought.

“Uh,” oh heavens, this was Christmas. There was a blush on John’s cheek. “Harold did.”

Joss felt shocked, she wasn’t expecting that.

“Excuse me?” Harold exclaimed. Ah, so she wasn’t the only one shocked. There was definitely something up with this scenario. Carter glanced up to throw a look at Shaw, but found her looking out the window, a smile on her face. She had an inkling about what had happened. This was going to be fun to watch being played out.

“Yeah,” John was looking at Harold now, confused and concerned. “I found a note in my apartment by you.”

“Of course you did.” Harold bit out and threw a sharp glare towards Shaw. Oh he was sharp. Figured it out already.

“What did the note say?” Joss asked sweetly. This was better than prime time television.

John looked at Harold, who also looked curious despite himself, with questioning gaze. When he got a nod in reply, he rubbed the back of his neck and spoke to the floor when saying, obviously reciting from memory, “Mr. Reese, I am afraid I have feelings for you that are more than platonic. If you feel the same way, meet me in Hotel Grand, Room 141, 8:00 pm today.” His voice trailed off at the end… both shy and confused to be asked to recount something so private.

Joss cackled. She couldn’t help it. “Oh! She is good.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Even Harold looked grudgingly impressed. “Although I believe I would’ve been more expressive.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Shaw said to the sky outside the window.

“No you wouldn’t,” Joss agreed.

John sighed, “Can anyone fill me in on the joke here?”

Harold’s focus seemed to suddenly shift, and his face softening. He grabbed one of John’s hand lying on the table and pressed it reassuringly- God, they were already so disgustingly married- before wincing and saying, “I received a similar note from you. It was lying on my table in the library when I came in yesterday morning.”

There was a quick series of complex emotions passing through John’s face before they settled on one of sheepish irritation. “Shaw!” He concluded, addressing the girl with barely hidden menace in his voice.

In answer she turned and gave him a grin and a mock solute- brave woman. Reese ground his teeth, and looked like he was going to have a talk with her when they weren’t sitting in a public place.

“Miss Shaw, why, may I ask, did you feel compelled to play such a prank on us?” Harold asked, sounding a little hurt.

“Oh come now big guy, it wasn’t a prank. I was doing you both a favor. And honestly, we were all a little bit tired of the sad pining. Weren’t we Joss?”

“Damn right we were.”

“And left to yourself, you would’ve continued on for months more. You’re both hopeless at this whole emotions shtick.”

“Coming from you… that’s saying something.” John bit out.

“It is, isn’t it? I just wanted you guys to be happy,” She said, mock sweet, her eyes glinting and her lips stretched into a wide smile.

“And you wanted to win the bet,” John growled.

“Yeah. That too,” she agreed easily.

John looked like he was about to pounce, but Harold put his other hand on top of John’s too, caressing it gently, and the spy calmed down.

“Although it does explain why the evening was so awkward,” Harold mused, then caught John’s eye and said, “in the beginning.”

“It got better though, right? Later,” John agreed, completely forgetting he was supposed to be angry, one of the softest and sappiest expressions on his face that Carter had ever seen. It was a little surreal to witness.

“It did,” Harold concurred, his ears tinged pink as he stared into his partner’s eyes.

Joss felt like she was invading their privacy, and quickly looked away. She shared a glance with Shaw, who was making a repulsed face.

“Yeah. They have been doing this since morning,” Shaw shook her head in disapproval, bending towards the detective and fake whispering in her ear, “I am beginning to regret my interference now.”

“Well, serves you right,” John commented, as he shared a quick chaste kiss with Harold, closing his eyes. Harold looked a little lost, and Joss felt like cooing at them both.

Harold seemed to steel himself for a moment, making his expressions resemble something other than hopelessly smitten, and then he took a deep breath and started explaining what they needed from her. She noticed how Harold was gesturing with one hand, the other under the table, probably holding John’s. She was a detective… noticing these things was her job.

When they were done, Harold thanked her sincerely- he was always such a gentleman. John got up and helped him up the chair, and offered him his hand. Instead of being affronted, the man took it with a grateful smile, letting himself be vulnerable. There was something stinging at Joss’s eyes and sticking in her throat at this casual display of trust. Nobody would be able to tell they had not been together before yesterday.

Shaw jumped up too, almost bouncing on her feet, as she nodded at Carter and smirked, “I will drop by at the station to collect my winnings later,” before skipping out of the restaurant. There was a certain lightness about her behavior today that meant more than just winning the bet.

“Goodbye Detective,” Harold said one last time before limping away. John nodded at her, a glow on his face, as he placed an arm around the older man’s back, both for the proximity and the support it would allow.

She felt a burden lift from her heart as she watch them go out of the door, a smile creeping on her face and staying there. Yes. She could relate with Shaw at the moment.

It wasn’t about a stupid bet. It was about two men, who deserved all the happiness in the world, finally finding some.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had SO much fun writing this one. This might be my fav yet.


	6. Sugar Sweet Lips.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John feeds Finch donuts.  
> T rated. Fluffy kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is absolutely [talkingtothesky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky)'s fault. This is basically half her words, we talked about this scene and then almost simulataneously wrote it too. Her version is ABSOLUTE PERFECTION. Go read it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9437288)

John picked a powdered donut, and bit into it, savoring the sweetness of the jelly on his tongue as he leaned against the table on Harold’s side. Finch was sitting in his usual spot, busy rewriting the very code of universe- that’s what John always liked to think- completely ignoring the breakfast that Reese had so graciously brought.

“Finch, the donuts won’t eat themselves,” John teased, as he took another bite of it.

“As you can see Mr. Reese, my hands are quite busy,” Finch retorted acerbically, barely sparing him a glance.

Reese considered that, tilting his head to a side and staring at the donut in his hand, seeing the jelly trickling out a little. With a wicked smile creeping on his lips, he moved and positioned the donut right in front of Harold’s lips, making the genius’s rapidly moving fingers freeze. He looked up at him with eyes full of irritation, so John just shrugged saying, “you said your hands were busy.”

Harold kept glaring at him for a few moments, and the wisest thing to do would be to apologize and move away, but John never did give up that easily. Prodding Harold and riling him up was sort of his hobby. To his surprise, instead of making a cutting remark at Reese’s lack of decorum, Finch took a deep breath, closing his eyes. When he opened them, they were glinting with mischief.

_Uh-oh._

He watched, fixated, as Harold caught his eye, and then poked out his tongue into the jelly filled part, letting his tongue caress his upper lip on the way back in. John shivered. As if not satisfied with the effect his little antic had already had on his agent, he opened his mouth and took a bite of the offering and _moaned._

“Jesus Christ,” John let out a whimper of his own, making Harold raise an eyebrow at him as he swallowed, and then moved to lick at the icing again, slowly and with intent. When Harold closed his eyes, bit his lower lip, and let out a tiny moan again, Reese’s patience snapped.

He dropped the fried delicacy on the table hastily and grabbed Harold’s face in both of his hands, bending slightly and pressing their lips together. Finch let out a tiny chuckle but his hands found John’s cheeks too, returning the kiss. When John’s tongue ventured out and tasted the icing on Harold’s lips, he groaned and deepened the kiss to chase the sweetness that was part icing, part jelly, and part just _Harold_.

“Maybe you should feed me our breakfast more often,” Finch commented later.

“Maybe I should,” John agreed, thinking of shared mornings and tea, and sweet, sugary kisses.


	7. Gifts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reese and Finch are atrocious at giving gifts but it's adorable anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Idinink](http://archiveofourown.org/users/idinink/pseuds/idinink) asked: Who is the most creative gifts.

“Happy Birthday Mr. Reese,” Harold smiles, as he rummages into his pocket and takes out a small black box.

John doesn’t need to open it to know it contains a key. After four years, this is getting pretty predictable.

“You bought me a house? Again?” He sighs in fake disapproval.

“A villa this time. In Positano, Italy.”

“I still haven’t even visited the one you bought me last time. In _Paris_.”

“Well it’s hardly my fault that you don’t take any vacations,” Harold huffs.

“I think it’s definitely your fault; Harold,” he says pointedly. Harold ponders over it for a moment than shrugs admitting defeat.

“It’s beautiful though. It’s spacious and overlooks the sea from the balcony. You will love it,” Harold justifies, in a small hopeful voice.

John’s heart melts and he gets up, kisses Finch on his forehead and then wraps his hands around him, speaking into his hair, “Thank you.”

Harold sighs a happy sigh, murmuring, “you are very welcome, my Dear John,” into his chest.

“Seriously though, what am I going to do with all these houses?”

“I don’t know,” Harold hedges, “I was hoping someday, we can retire, and then take a long trip around the world. They will come handy then.”

John closes his eyes, overcome with emotion, and tightens his arms around the man. He swallows around the immense weight of the words. Harold wasn’t just buying him property across the world. He was buying him _retirement plans_.

“Thank you,” he murmurs again, and Harold just nods, understanding what he wasn’t saying.

* * *

John looks at the Number from the sidewalk, who is sitting in the café enjoying his cup of coffee and shifts from one foot to another, contemplating.

He is sure that nothing bad would happen if he just ducked into the store in front of him for two minutes. He hasn’t been in this part of the city before and this is basically tradition. Making a decision he enters the shop, and locates the classics section he is now expert a t finding.

John’s smile brightens when he spots what he is looking for, “To kill a mockingbird” by Harper Lee. Even better: this one has a different cover too. As he pays for it at the counter he grins at what always happens, and would probably happen this time too.

_Harold would be having a remarkably snarky day, and John would just be like “oh wait, I got something for you,” and go get the book from wherever he would’ve stored it this time. Harold is going to try very hard to suppress the smile, and roll his eyes saying, “you know the book isn’t about killing a bird right?” John is going to pretend to be shocked all over again, and then just being like, “Oh well, since I have bought it already.” Harold would let out an exasperated sigh and would pick up the book and put it on a shelf at the back._

They have two whole rows of different copies of ‘To kill a mockingbird’ by now.

* * *

“Harold, did you…” he is speechless as he looks at the opened gift box in front of him, “you bought me a gun?” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, but the gun is still there, real.

“Well, it’s our anniversary. I wanted to get you something you would like.”

“You bought me a gun,” He repeats, stunned.

“It’s not strictly legal. In fact, people aren’t even allowed to know it exists, but I pulled some strings…” Harold starts rambling, anxious.

“Finch,” John looks up, wonder and love in his eyes, “you bought me a gun!”

Harold looks at him for a second, and then shakes his head saying, “oh do stop being ridiculous,” before kissing John soundly and making him forget about the gun for a while.

* * *

“Happy Birthday Finch,” John calls out when he enters the library, carrying a gift bag.

“It’s not my birthday today Mr. Reese,” Finch grouses.

“One of these days, I will guess it right,” he promises, and then bends down to kiss his partner on his cheek, “but today, let’s pretend it is.”

Finch sighs and turns away from the table, facing him. “Let’s have it then, which one is it this time.”

John grins, “A cuckoo.”

“I don’t have an alias by that bird name.”

“Well, don’t you think it’s time you do?” John is enjoying himself far too much.

“Is it a shirt? Socks? Please tell me you didn’t bring me bird undergarments,” Finch pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

“What if I did?”

“You do realize I have an entire drawer in my closet with bird related clothing, don’t you?”

“I like to think they help you get into character,” John laughs at the appalled look on Harold’s face. Riling up the man never got old.

* * *

Bonus:

“Joss,” John calls her in the middle of lunch break, an urgent tone in his voice. “Are you busy?”

Carter looks a little morosely at her half eaten food and gets up from the table to go to a side answering, “No. I have time. What’s the problem?”

John sighs on the other end of the call, breathing a “Thank God,” and she is suddenly concerned.

“Is something wrong, John?”

“Um, so it’s Christmas next week,” he starts, and then stops.

“Yeah. And?”

“And I haven’t bought Harold a gift yet,” he complains in the most miserable of voices. Carter glances back at her lunch and clenches her teeth.

“And what exactly did you want me to do with that information?”

“Help,” John begs, “Please help. Girls are supposed to be good at this sort of thing.”

Fusco motions her from the corner of her eye, telling her they gotta go. She says in the phone irritably, “I don’t know. Just wrap yourself up as a gift and he will completely approve. I have to go now. Some people are actually dealing with emergencies.”

“Wrap myself… are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, I am sure,” she answers, distractedly, as she nods at her partner and makes her way towards him, “call me when you have some _actual_ work for me.”

“Thanks Joss. I owe you,” she hears John says happily from the other side, before breaking the connection.

It was on the Christmas Eve, that she remembers her conversation with the John. Laughing helplessly, she hopes they are having fun.


	8. Sleepy Cuddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Idinink](http://archiveofourown.org/users/idinink/pseuds/idinink) asked: who is the earliest riser?

Finch opens his eyes to a dark room, lit only by the small nightlight. He sighs. Awake again then. This wasn’t surprising, considering how he rarely ever managed to sleep more than a four to five hours at night. He closes his eyes and shifts a little, seeking out the is just a few inches away.

John shifts at his back, his arm coming to drape around him, pulling him closer. He expects the breath on the back of his neck, a warm puff of “Good morning.”

“It’s hardly morning,” Harold whispers, not wanting to break the silence.

“Hmmm, yeah,” John agrees. The timer on the side table reads 4:13 am.

He closes his eyes and relaxes, breathing in the contentment and comfort generated by the body of his lover near him… the safety. Happiness.

They do that almost every night, neither of them requiring a lot of sleep. John, because of his military training, was forced to grow out of the habit of sound sleep, and Harold, because of his chronic pain and insomnia hardly finds himself comfortable enough to be unconscious for more than a few hours.  
And yet, every time, they both lie in each other’s arms, fully aware that the other one is awake, but enjoying the act of relaxing in the proximity of the one they love, until the break of dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (oh look. I binge write these two.)


	9. The cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [M_E_Lover](http://archiveofourown.org/users/M_E_Lover/pseuds/M_E_Lover) asked : How about John takes care of Harold when he is sick with the flu?   
>  This is a lot of fluff, rather than hurt/comfort. But I hope you like it still.   
> G-rated.

 

“I am not sick Mr. Reese,” Finch whines in a nasal tone, and follows it with a sneeze.

“Yes Finch, you aren’t. I believe you. Now, open your mouth…” He cajoles, and get a look of scorn in response, which is only slightly ruined by the sniffling.

“I am okay,” he insists.

“Finch. This thermometer is either going to go in your mouth, or there is another place I can stick it in as well. Don’t force me,” John threatens. Harold was stubborn on a good day, but when he fell ill, he was completely unreasonable in this annoyingly logical way.

At least the threat of having a thermometer shoved up his ass made him open his mouth, but the glare he leveled at Reese through the two minutes of holding it in under his tongue was more frigid than the weather outside.

John checks the mercury, 39 degrees. Damn. Harold is going to be difficult about this.

He looks up at Harold and winces.

“I am not sick,” Harold huffs, folding his hands across his chest and pushing away his chair a little.

“We both know you are, Harold, and pretending otherwise won’t help anyone.”

The man deflates, “Okay so maybe I am not feeling on top of my health today, but I haven’t felt that way for a while now. I can handle it.”

“I know you can Harold. I know you can,” he reassures, because Harold can be shot and bleeding and he can still handle it. His ability to persevere was not in question here. “But you don’t have to. You can rest.”

Harold looks up at him like he has said something insulting, “I don’t need to _rest_.”

John places the thermometer on the table with care, and cups Harold’s face in both of his hands, making him look up at him. “I know you don’t need it. But indulge me? It would put my heart at ease. Please?” He requests earnestly, bending down and putting his forehead against Harold’s. His skin is alarmingly warm.

Harold’s frame is tense, so he mutters lowly, “We just finished handling a number and you were having trouble focusing in the end. I and Shaw can handle the numbers if any more show up for the rest of the day. Have some faith in us.”

“I do…” he tries to withdraw but John tightens his hold.

“We need you to get well fast, we can’t have you getting worse. Let me help you. Please,” he begs, and wants to whoop in success when the tension releases from Harold’s body.

“I suppose you’re right,” he admits defeat.

“I knew you would see my way,” John smiles, and then moves a little back to place a kiss on Harold’s forehead before motioning him.

He takes him to the backroom in the library, and Finch stops in his tracks.

“You planned this,” he turns to look at Reese accusingly. Reese just shrugs.

“Your voice was hoarse and you were sneezing a bit last night. So I brought some necessities because I knew you would refuse to go back home.”

“Necessities? I would say these are more than necessities,” Harold gestures towards the blanket fort that once used to be a barely functional bed. There were far too many pillows, “did you raid a store?”

“Did what I had to do Finch. Now, let’s get you out of all these layers okay?” John helps Harold out of his coat and vest, and then gets him undercover, handing him the glass of water and paracetamol from the shelf on the side.

“Where are you going?” Finch asks, vulnerable, when John turned to leave.

“Getting something,” he says, before going out and picking up the takeaway bowl that he had brought with himself when he was returning after handing the Number off to Carter.

“Soup Mr. Reese? Can we get any more cliché?” Harold raises his eyebrows, and even through his clogged voice, the disdain is easy to pick.

“Nothing wrong with cliché. It’s that way for a reason,” John smiles and hands him his bowl before shrugging off his own coat and getting into the blanket fort with Harold. He places his arm around Finch’s shoulder, pulling him close-careful not to spill the soup- and kisses him on the side of his head.

“You’re gonna catch the virus too John,” Harold points out, as he blows on the spoonful before swallowing it. The man had not eaten anything since morning. John had noticed.

“Worth it,” if possible, John shifts even closer. He hopes there is no new number so he could pamper Harold to his heart’s content, but he will take what he can get for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not very happy with this, in a weird mindset right now. But like...   
> That cliche line? Well, it's basically tipping of the hat for my MOST CLICHE-EST OF CLICHE FLU SCENE OKAY.


	10. Lip Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't know how to take care of himself, or his chapped lips. Finch helps. (T-rated fluff)

John rushes into the library to escape from the cold outside. As if the low temperature wasn’t bad enough, today the wind is extra harsh too. He sighs after entering through the door, into the not-significantly warmer building, but at least there is no wind. As he closes the door, he wonders if he can tempt Harold into buying at least a warm air blower for the place.

He climbs up to second floor, hearing the clacking of the keys before he even enters the main room, and a smile creeps up on his face. The smell of books, the sound of typing, had come to be associated with Finch for him, with safety, with home.

“Morning Finch,” he calls out, before walking up to where Harold was sitting.

“What? No tea today?” He says in a disappointed voice before turning slightly to look at John unhappily.

“Sorry,” Reese grins, and bends down to kiss his partner on his cheek, explaining, “It’s so cold outside that it would’ve frozen before I had even reached the library.”

Harold turns completely now, still frowning, so John gives in to the impulse and holds Harold’s cheeks before kissing his pouting lips.

After only a moment, Harold gasps and wrenches himself away, looking aghast at John. He feels a little hurt; he has a reasonable explanation for not bringing tea; it’s not such a big deal. They could go out together and get it after a while; in fact, John had been looking forward to that.

Finch gets up from his chair, and tells him to, ‘sit down Mr. Reese,’ and walks away to ruffle in one of the drawers across the room. Dumbfounded, he does what he is asked, and waits for Finch to come back.

When he does, he is holding an innocuous small circular container, which he is opening with concentration. Then he looks up at John with the same disappointed eyes and sighs,

“Have you never heard of a thing called lip care, Mr. Reese?”

“Lip what?”

“Lip _care,_ ” he enunciates, “your lips are so chapped it’s a miracle they aren’t bleeding.”

“What?”

“You really need to take better care of yourself,” he sighs, before swiping his finger on the balm- because that’s what’s in his hand… lip balm.

“I really don’t think that’s necessary Finch…” He says, confused and a little bit put off.

“It’s necessary if you want to kiss me,” Harold decides, folding his hands across his chest.

“That’s blackmail,” Reese huffs, amused by Harold’s prissiness.

“And your chapped lips are a blasphemy.”

“Blasphemy? Isn’t that a little extreme?” he teases, nodding at Harold to let him know he can do what he wants.

“Not at all. These lips,” Harold touches his lower lip with his pinky finger, and rubs the balm into his skin softly, “deserve to be taken care of,” swiping the finger on the balm and returning to the corner of his lip, “pampered,” his voice is drops an octave, and John notices that his eyes are focused on his mouth, unwaveringly, “cherished.”

John groans, “Harold.”

“Yes, My dear?” Harold answers, distracted, switching fingers and lightly rubbing the curve of his upper lip with his middle finger now.

“You are killing me here,” John moans. Harold’s eyes sweep up to meet his and he smiles smugly, finishing lathering a thick coating of balm on his chapped lips.

“There, done!” he says, backing off.

“What about that kiss you promised me?” John grouches.

“As you well know Mr. Reese, I keep my promises. And I intend to keep this one,” he almost throws the container on the table and sinks his fingers into John’s hair… the kiss turning heated within seconds. Apparently rubbing lip balm on your lover’s lips can be considered foreplay.

Later in the day, while chasing the Number, John reflexively licks his lips and tastes apple. It tastes like Harold’s kisses. Maybe there are advantages to lip care after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really not sure about this. It's kinda... OOC, and very abrupt. But it's a cute image. And very domestic. so it belongs in this collection.


	11. Conversation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finch and Reese talk about their relationship.  
> Fluff. T-rated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was hitting a block so I attempted to do a writing exercise from [ this](http://writingexercises.co.uk/) site.  
>  _Write about 300 words of dialogue. Show the difference between the two speakers only through the language they use (i.e don't use 'he said', 'she said', etc.)_  
>  Of course I ended up writing these two. It's odd and a little random, but it's fluff so I am posting it anyway. Enjoy.

“Do you ever think we should perhaps stop doing this?”

“Stop? Stop doing what?”

“Ahhh. You know perfectly well what I am referring you Mr. Reese?”

“Don’t tell me you want me to stop now… or, do you?”

“No!” “No, please don’t stop.”

“Heh. I didn’t intend to. I just wanted to see how you would react.”

“That’s rather callous of you.”

“What can I say Finch, you’re a hard man to get a reaction out of.”

“That pun should be considered a crime.”

“A lot of what we do should be considered a crime.”

“Hmm. That’s true.”

“Why do you want us to stop doing this anyway?”

“I didn’t say I _want_ us to. I just wondered if you ever thought that.”

“Why would I ever think that?”

“Because I am your boss and this is not ethically appropriate?”

“Finch. Everything we do is not ethically appropriate.”

“I see! You do make a solid argument Mr. Reese.”

“Glad you agree.”

* * *

“Hey Harold.”

“Yes Mr. Reese?”

“I don’t want to stop doing this, if I wasn’t clear, before.”

“I simply don’t want you to ever feel obligated to…”

“I am going to stop you there. There is no obligation about this. I do it because I want to.”

“If you are sure…”

“What’s not to be sure about? What’s not to like about kissing you? About waking up next to you? About fighting for my life because I know it means I will get to see you at the end of the day?”

“John, I…”

“Don’t say anything. You don’t have to.”

“But I do. You should know that … I- I don’t want us to stop doing this either.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

“I do Harold. I know.”

“I am glad.”

“Go to sleep Finch.”

“Goodnight Mr. Reese.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS: When xlostlenore read the fic, she said, that pun might be considered a crime, but it's _unlawfully good_ though, and I just thought everyone should enjoy that play of words.


	12. Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is in DC for work, and they both can't sleep alone in their beds. So they call each other to fill the emptiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So [Sky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky) made [this](http://talking2thesky.tumblr.com/post/156580631718/insp) manip, and said she imagines Harold saying these words to John's grave.  
> And I decided I am going to make this post HAPPY and have Harold say it to John on phone and make it fluffier than fluff. And this happened. (So many of my fluff ideas are born in chat with Sky).
> 
> Also yes. I do headcanon Detective Riley and Professor Whistler being married/living together in s4 and nobody can convince me otherwise.

He had been tossing and turning in the unfamiliar bed for better part of an hour, unable to find a comfortable position to fall asleep in. He felt cold in a way that had nothing to do with the room temperature and everything to do with the lack of warmth of his partner’s body beside him. Sighing, he looked at the wall clock.

2:21 am.

On a hunch, he picked up his phone and sent a quick text.

_Finch? You there?_

The reply came almost immediately,

_Always Mr. Reese._

There was no one to hide his smile from, so he let it bloom on his lips. He wondered if Harold had any idea how much he had come to adore this little exchange. It was always the same, and it never failed to make him feel safe and loved. Suddenly, he wanted to hear the man’s voice. They had both been so busy the whole day that there had been no time for calls.

He dialed the number, and lay back into bed holding the phone against his ear. It was picked up on the second ring with Harold’s anxious voice answering from the other side,

“Mr. Reese, is everything alright? Are you in trouble?”

“Hello to you too, Harold,” his voice was full of fondness and he distinctly heard a huff from the other side as he realized John wasn’t in any distress.

“Don’t you have to go to training early in the morning? Why are you still up?” Harold reprimanded and John groaned. John Riley had been sent to attend a three day compulsory training workshop in Washington DC, and there had been no wriggle room to escape from it.

“I could ask you the same question. Why are _you_ still awake?”

“I am working on our new Number,” Harold explained, and John knew him too well to tell when he was bluffing.

“I thought you said you would never lie to me Harold,” he complained, mock affronted.

Harold sighed, “It’s not a lie.”

“Just not the complete truth. Come on. I know you better than that.”

“That you may, John, but I am quite sure I asked the question first.”

“You did,” John allowed, and then answered because why not, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Worried?”

“Lonely.”

There was silence on the other end for a few minutes, and then he heard movement and ruffling of clothes.

“What are you doing?” He asked, curious.

“Getting into bed.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, Mr. Reese. You were right. I didn’t sleep till now, because well…I couldn’t sleep. I missed you. But Professor Whistler has an 8:00 am class in the morning and some shut eye would help me do a passing job at my cover,” while he was talking, John could hear the distinct sounds of Harold settling into bed. He was so used to hearing them that the noise was somehow comforting to him. A nightly ritual.

“Wasn’t the number, Miss Elizabeth, intriguing enough to hold your attention?” John asked, unable to help himself. He hated the little hurt tone in his voice, the insecurity.

“Whatever are you talking about John?” Harold asked in a baffled voice.

“Shaw said,” he swallows the uncertainty, “she said you have been busy with the extremely _charming_ woman. Totally besotted. She said that…”

“I am going to have to stop you there Mr. Ree-,”

“Is that why you didn’t call Harold?” He finally voiced what had been breaking his heart all day. Harold had not called, even a single time in the last 32 hours.

“I didn’t call because I thought you were already dealing with too much on your end. And because we had three numbers at once, and I had to personally get involved with one of them while at the same time providing information on the other two to Miss Shaw and Miss Groves. I am sorry but Sameen was probably teasing you…”

“Sorry,” John said, sheepish, turning to his side and smiling slightly into the pillow. He didn’t want to admit this but the reassurances helped soothe the ache in his chest.

“You don’t have to apologize, but John, I-,” Harold started out loud but then his voice got small and quiet, “You have to have known this already. I was sure you knew. I only have the one heart John, and I have already entrusted it to you. I don’t have anything left to bestow on another. You don’t- you never have to worry about that.”

John was struck speechless for a few moments. He closed his eyes pressed his teeth into his lips, as if trying to close all the ways the words could leave his body, wanting them to stay in his heart forever.

“I love you,” he admitted in the end, his voice hoarse. He could not weave magic into words the way Finch could, but he hoped Harold understood the sentiment nonetheless.

“As do I,” Finch said quietly, and then after a long pause asked, “How was your day?”

“Long.”

“That’s succinct.”

“… and boring.”

“Very well then.”

“How was yours?”

“Exhausting,” Harold let out a long sigh, muffled slightly by his pillow- John guessed, “and draining.”

“I hope you didn’t get into any trouble?” John asked, worried despite himself. He knew Harold could handle himself, but when he wasn’t there to step in when things got bad, he was prone to worrying.

“None whatsoever. Everything went smoothly. The team work like a well-oiled machine now. It’s so very different from when it was just you and I, struggling to keep up. Despite being under the constant threat of Samaritan, I think we have learned to work pretty well together.” There was a hint of pride creeping into Harold’s tone and John could not stress how well deserved it was. He had found these group of miss-fits, gave them a purpose, and made them a family. He had earned a little pride over their success.

“I am glad to hear that.”

“But…” Harold hesitated and suddenly John felt the concern raise its head again.

“But?”

“But I must admit I miss you terribly. The world is too quiet without you nearby.”

John hid his face into the pillow and suppressed the way he wants to squeal. Harold knew just how to twist his heartstrings and make him a mess. A happy, loved mess.

“Harold, if you say stuff like that, I would probably get on the next flight back home,” he warned.

“No! No. You stay there and finish your workshop. You will be done soon anyway.”

“Two more days.”

“Yes, two more days and you will be able to come back home.”

“To you.”

“To me,” he agreed, his tone happy.

They listened to the sound of each other’s breathing, used to the quiet and comfortable in it. At length, Harold asked, “Do you think you can sleep now?”

“Will you keep the line open?” He could feel his eyes becoming heavy, the presence of his lover even across a phone line helping him feel safe and at ease.

“Of course Mr. Reese.”

“Then yes. Yes I can,” he was slurring slightly, so he put the phone on speaker and moved it so it won’t slide under the pillow.

“Good night my Dear,” Harold said, his own voice rough with sleep.

“Goodnight Harold,” and with that, listening to the quite inhale and exhale of Harold, he closed his eyes, welcoming the dark.


	13. Dare.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on an ask prompt: "Do it. I dare you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because [xLostLenore](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xLostLenore) prompted me, and because she isn't having a very nice day. This is for her!

It is Detective Riley’s lunch hour. So of course it means he ends up here, at the subway station, even though it wastes half the break on the commute. Looking at his partner, eating together while listening to his voice, is worth the effort.

Which is why he is beyond frustrated that Finch hasn’t so much as looked at the food since he arrived with it.

“Come on Harold, the food isn’t going to eat itself.”

“Not hungry John. I have to get across this firewall with as much haste as possible.”

“It can wait five minutes,” John sighs.

“It really can’t,” Finch refuses stubbornly.

John stares at the pinched eyebrows and considers his position. Their Number is in no imminent danger at the moment, otherwise he would not be insisting on Harold lightening up. This was just his partner’s perfectionist streak speaking.

Suddenly he gets an idea. Smirking deviously, he unwraps his burger, takes a bite and _moans._

He almost wants to laugh at how Harold’s eyebrows twitch and how he throws him a scathing look. His fingers still at the keyboard for a moment, but then he shakes his head and goes back to typing. Huh. Reese has always appreciated a challenge.

With the next bite, he loosens himself and slips down the chair a bit, opening his legs, and groans sinfully, enjoying the way Harold stiffens and the tip of his ears start turning pink. Harold has always enjoyed John being vocal in bed, but usually he has to work for it, fighting for every noise. And here he is, mimicking all the pornographic noises he possibly could.

With the third bite and the whispered, _“so good,_ ” Finch’s patience snaps,

“Have you no care for decorum Mr. Reese?”

He has finally stopped staring at the monitor and is paying attention; Reese’s mission is half complete, “I don’t know what you are talking about,” John says innocently.

Harold opens his mouth and then shuts it, “please shut up John.”

“That’s not what you said last night.” John licks his lower lip deliberately, delighting in the way Harold’s gaze follows the movement, “In fact, you asked for just the opposite.”

“I am not even going to dignify that with an answer,” Finch decrees, “if you are going to debase yourself like this, do continue.”

“Oh I plan to,” he promises, as the coder goes back to breaking whatever firewall dares to stand in his way at the moment.

John does not relent. With every bite, the noises he makes increase become more and more pornographic, and he adds in a little ‘ _Mhmmm_ ’ and a ‘ _oh yes’_ and ‘ _oh God yes’_ just to see how tense Harold gets, how he is hitting more backspace than actually typing, and his fingers are pushing the buttons harshly, his restraint stretched thin. John has no idea if he is pushing Finch towards snapping because of anger, or sexual frustration. A bit of both, if he has to guess.

“Mr. Reese. If you continue with this absurd idea of a joke and don’t shut up, I am afraid I will have to make you,” Finch warns, his voice gone rough and a little steely. John feels a shiver run up his spine.

Never one to back out though, he goads, “Do it then. I dare you.”

Finch closes his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. When he opens them, they are calm and calculating. Standing up, he says, whisper soft, “Very well then.”

John puts his half eaten lunch on the table as he approaches. He doesn’t know what he is expecting but it is both a surprise and completely predictable when Harold slides into his lap, straddling him. Instinctively, John’s hand goes to Finch’s back, supporting it, as the man cups his face in both of his hands before sliding one of them up into his hair. He lets out a completely involuntary whimper when the fingers close in his hair, pulling down harshly to tilt his face up.

The rest of the noises he makes are lost inside Harold’s mouth and are smothered against his lips. Neither of them can say they really mind.

The lunch gets cold, Detective Riley is late in getting back to work… but lunch hours with his boyfriend are definitely worth a little reprimand.


	14. Made whole.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For "The way you said I love you" meme prompt of _Broken, as you clutch the sleeve of my jacket and beg me not to leave ___  
> T- rated. Fluffff. (light d/s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bigbunnimal on tumblr, ([Inadvertently Romantic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/InadvertentlyRomantic/pseuds/InadvertentlyRomantic)) prompted me to write fluff for this. So here we go.

John had asked to be taken apart, dismantled, and then put back together right. Asked to broken and then made whole. Made _his._  

How could Harold say no to such a request? 

Afterwards, he lay in bed covered in a sheen of sweat, a content smile on his face, too worn out to move. Harold knew it was up to him to clean them up and make them comfortable. So he brushed the hair off of Reese’s forehead tenderly, chuckling the man leaned into his touch and all but purred, and then moved to get up.

A hand shot out, as if wanting to grab his wrist. Instead, it fell short and wavered, just brushed the sleeve of his jacket, clutching it beseechingly. He looked at the hand in surprise, following the extended limb up to the tense face, and wide panicked eyes. 

“I love you,” he pleaded, broken. Harold did not have to wonder about what that meant, he could hear what John was not saying as clear as if the words had been spoken aloud.

‘ _Don’t leave_ ,’ he was begging, ‘ _don’t leave me_ ,’ as if that had ever been an option.

“Oh John.” Harold gripped the hand still caressing his sleeve solidly, and then with aching tenderness, kissed the forehead of the supine man, before climbing under the covers fully clothed. They both moved until Harold lay with his head on John’s chest, snuggling comfortably. 

“I love you too,” he whispered into the quiet. A confession that was also a promise. A promise to never leave him, to be right there as long as John wanted him. Always


	15. Just feel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For tumblr ask meme "They way you said I love you", xLostLenore prompted _Slowly, the words dripping from your tongue like honey_.  
>  FLUFFF. T-rated.

“Close your eyes John,” Harold said, in a hushed voice, and John complied right before he felt the soft cotton on his eyelids. “Just like that.” The knot at the back of his head was not firm. John was sure he could shake it off if he tried hard enough.

“And what am I supposed to do now?” John asked, amused. Both his arms were tied to the arms of the chair - again, he could break out of them in under half a minute if he wanted- and now he was blindfolded too.

“I thought the answer was obvious.” There was a smile evident in Harold’s voice, and as he felt the weight settle in his lap, he reciprocated it.

“And what’s that?”

“Just feel my dear. Feel.” Harold whispered, straddling him properly now.

He felt fingertips touch his jawbone, whisper soft, tracing the line to his ear and then following the curve of his pinna. It might as well have been breeze, if the warmth of Harold’s touch was not so familiar to him. A fingertip traced down the middle of his face, from forehead down the bridge of his nose, to his lips and disappearing when it reached his neck. Light caresses on his cheekbones, the curve of his brow, above his eyelids on top of the cloth… he doubted he could’ve even felt them if he wasn’t so attuned to it, so cut off from the distracting sense of sight.

When a thumb traced his lower lip back and forth, insistently, he opened it involuntarily on a sigh of _“Harold_.”

A new sensation then, warm puff of breath on his neck, tip of Harold’s nose edging up the side of his neck, until he could hear the sound of exhale on his ear. It was tantalizing.

A sound broke the absolute quiet. “I love you,” Harold said, slowly, emphasizing every word. It was like honey, dripping down his tongue, and John could not resist turning his face and finding his lover’s lips with a whimper. Harold, gracious as he was, obliged. His kisses were as sweet as his words, the saccharine taste of his declaration heady like a powerful drug.

“I love you,” Harold repeated against his lips, delicious like the first bite of a syrupy donut, like melting chocolate in his mouth, and John knew he was spoilt now. He would have to forego all sugar for the rest of his life, because nothing could compare to this, nothing could feel better than these words…

“I love you,” he pressed into his skin; they were an elixir and he was drowning in them, not even struggling to stay afloat. “I love you,” he offered, and death was a very small price to pay for another gulp, “I love you,” he breathed, and John never wanted to hear any other words.

John did what Harold had asked. He let himself feel, and _soar_!


	16. Ice cream.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For "the way you said I love you," prompt of _Too quick, mumbled into your scarf_ by [talkingtothesky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky) with the exclamation of ALL THE RINCH FLUFF. Because this is what it is. all the rinch fluff.

“One vanilla ice cream please,” Reese ordered, as he pulled a bill out of his wallet.

The man behind the counter raised his eyebrows at that, but John ignored him.

“Ice cream?” he clarified, looking around at the white grass, and the light but perpetual snowfall covering everything and giving it a soft silvery glow.

“Yes. One. It’s for my boyfriend.” John could not help smiling when he said the word. It was still so new, even after months.

He must’ve looked deranged- Shaw did say that his smile was scary- because there was a muttered, ‘ _your funeral_ ’ and then a moment later an ice cream cone was offered to him. After paying, he turned around and walked to the park bench where Harold was sitting, and stood in front of him.

The man was typing enthusiastically, and the sigh John let out was thoroughly fond. He cleared his throat and Finch looked up abruptly.

“I was only just…” He closed the lid hastily, trying to hide the laptop- like a kid caught doing something naughty. “I am done. It’s over. I turned it off.” Putting it away he babbled, guilty.

“What did we decide about dates and work Harold?” John teased, just because he could.

“Sorry.” Harold looked down, chastised. “You were gone for a bit and I thought I could check up on Mrs. Warish quickly,” he explained anyway.

John smiled, “I guessed that.” He could hardly ever be upset about Harold’s empathy, and his concern of other people. “Now, do you want the ice cream or not? I received a lot of raised eyebrows carrying it you know.”

Harold finally noticed the cone in his hand and his eyes shined as he quickly took the offered treat.

“Thank you,” he said, before giving the frozen dairy a tiny lick, followed by a satisfied and pleased hum. John tried not to melt into a puddle because of how adorable the sight was.

“Shall we walk then?” John asked. Harold nodded, placing his laptop carefully in his bag. John offered him his hand for support, and then interlaced their fingers as they started walking. They had a movie to catch in an hour, but neither of them was in any hurry; instead, were casually enjoying the company.

They walked like that, hand in hand, and John was still giddy about that. Even after months. Of being able to publicly show what they were, what they meant to each other. Of being able to call Finch his boyfriend.

Harold licked a large stripe of ice cream and let out a happy moan. John could not stop himself from chuckling. It was so out of character for the usually stoic man, but at the same time, so very Harold. Enjoying little pleasures. Like ice cream in January.

“You like it?” John asked just for the sake of it. The smile and the little happy sounds were answer enough.

“I love it.” Harold glanced at him sincerely, and then looked away, hiding his nose in his scarf. The shy, too quick, mumble that followed it was barely audible, spoken into the cloth, “I love you.”

John stopped in his tracks. Harold took a couple of steps forward, only noticing that John wasn’t walking when the hand that he still had clasped in John’s didn’t move. He turned and looked at John questioningly.

“What did you say?” John looked at him with wide eyes.

“You know what I said.” He looked away, his cheeks turning red against the backdrop of white.

“Harold.” John’s lips were stretching, a smile forming, as he moved forward and crowded into Harold’s space. “What did you say?”

“Mr. Reese, it’s not like I haven’t said it before,” He spoke to John’s chest, not looking up. He was right. Harold had definitely said it before, but it was a rare enough occurrence that John still felt a thrill at hearing it. He disengaged his fingers to hold Harold’s cheek in both hands -his skin cold against his palms- and tilted his chin up so their eyes met.

“You have. I still want to hear it again,” he breathed out, instilling a little plea in his words, “Please.”

“I love you John.” Harold looked right into his eyes and spoke, his voice strong. The conviction in his words made John’s heart stop, and then start all over again, faster and stronger. He saw Harold lick his lower lip, and decided he wanted to do that too.

Their kiss was cold, both their lips freezing because of the weather, and it was sweet, the vanilla still lingering on Harold’s tongue. It was also warm and intimate and quickly bordering on desperate.

When they disengaged, John looked at the ruffled genius and asked, “Do you really want to watch that movie Finch?”

He blinked at him for a moment, confused, before slowly smirking, “Yes. Yes I do.”

“You’re such a spoilsport,” John complained, mumbling against Finch’s lips before kissing them one more time.

“There would be time for… _sport_ … later. I am not going anywhere.” Harold chuckled, before linking their fingers again. He had somehow still managed to keep a hold on his ice cream through their make out and he went back to sampling it.

Slowly, the two men made their way towards the movie theater in the cold January evening; one of them was eating a vanilla cone, and the other stared at him with glinting eyes. They drew every eye because of the beautiful picture they made: of contentment; of partnership; of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was having a really really bad day. So this is too fluffy, almost bordering on OOC, but i just needed that. The cuteness. I hope you all enjoy it too. Also, even when i don't reply to a comment please know that it was probably the highlight of my day, and i love you guys so much for leaving wonderful encouragements. Thank you!.


	17. Unheard.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "http://mnemonicmadness.tumblr.com/">mnemonicmadness prompted me for How you said I love you : 32 "In a way I can't return" please? Since I obviously have no idea what's good for me, if possible, I'd like some angst. :)

John is sitting with his head bowed, and Harold’s frail limp hand held in both of his.

“You idiot.” He looks up at the man who had recklessly jumped into the middle of the fight to save him. “You senseless foolish man.”

Harold is lying in the hospital bed, too many tubes attached to his small frame, oxygen mask on his face and his eyes closed. He looks lifeless.

For the hundredth time in the last hour John’s restless fingers find his pulse again, the reassuring beat of it helping him breathe again.

“Who the hell allowed you to do that? Who the hell gave you the right to come between me and my fate? I am living on borrowed time. I am … not worth saving.” Even as he says the last words he can imagine the raised eyebrows he would get in response, the disapproval dripping from the voice chiding him. John half expects Harold to sit up in displeasure to remind him how _worthy_ he is. A helpless wet chuckle leaves his throat at the image.

“Don’t die. Please don’t die.” John begs, even though doctors had informed him this very morning. ‘ _Mr. Wren is sedated right now but he is out of danger. We are expecting minimum complications. There’s no reason to worry._ ’ How can he not worry? What does minimum complications mean? It is very hard to remember the reassurance when he is sitting next to the man who always have something clever to say on the tip of his tongue, but right now can’t even listen to his pleas.

“I can’t lose you too. I can’t.” He confesses, eyes roaming on the closed eyelids, behind which immense genius is hiding, and then dropping down to the hand he is holding, “I love you.”

He knows Harold can’t hear him. There is no way he can return the sentiment, can say it back to him; maybe not ever, but especially not right now. That makes it easier. It’s a secret he has been carrying for a long time now, hiding it even from himself. He has to speak it before it’s too late, even if it goes unheard.

“I love you,” he repeats, because it feels good to say it, “So you can’t die. You can’t leave me alone. Not again.” A drop of liquid forms on his eyelashes and falls down, splattering on the wrinkled delicate hand in his grasp. He feels it twitch… tighten. He takes it as acquiescence to his request and bends to place a soft kiss on the skin.

He is going to wait. The doctors said he will be okay. So he is going to wait, and when Harold wakes up, maybe he will tell him again. This time in a way he can return.


	18. Reward.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets cheeky and demands a reward for being an excellent boyfriend and bringing Harold food on their walk/date. (fluff. G-rated)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So xLostLenore tagged me in [this](http://xlostlenore.tumblr.com/post/157437716433) post and her tags inspired this fic.

Harold waits while John goes a few paces ahead and moves towards the other side of the metal railing. They have been walking around all afternoon and now they are both hungry. And even though Harold has been trying not to show it, John has somehow guessed that his leg is giving him trouble. So when they come across food stalls, and a bench, John tells him to sit while he goes and get them food.

However, instead of moving towards the food stalls, John just comes around and stands in front of Harold, smiling mischievously.

“Mr. Reese?” Harold questions.

“Yes Harold?”

Harold glances behind him pointedly where people are buying street food and then looks back at John’s face, not understanding what is going on. There is a grin on John’s face that never bodes well for Harold’s sanity, and he even widens his eyes in fake innocence. _Oh no_.

“The food John! Did you forget? It’s not going to buy itself now, is it?” Harold tries to play it cool, ignoring the warning bells going off in the back of his mind.

“What do I get in return?” John is leaning on the railing now, his arms folded and lying on top of it, his legs bent slightly.

“The food. To eat. I thought that was the entire point.”

“Uh-huh.” John shakes his head slightly, his eyes twinkling. “I want something more.”

“And pray tell, what might that be?” Harold decides to play along, his lips twitching at his partner’s obvious glee.

“A kiss,” John demands and Harold is taken aback.

“What?”

“You heard me. I want a kiss as a reward.” When Harold moves to shake his head in denial, John’s smile wavers a little, his hand shooting out and grasps Harold’s tie lightly, “Please.”

“ _Here?_ ” Harold looks around, expecting people to be eavesdropping to their conversation, but nobody seems to have noticed.

“Yes. Here. Now.” John plays with the tie in his hand, folds it around his fingers. He leans forward even more, precariously, and for a second Harold is concerned he might topple over.

“Not that I have anything against public displays of affection, but I hardly think it’s appropriate,” Harold protests halfheartedly, taking a small step towards the railing-towards John- and seeing his grin widening in triumph. “We are no longer adolescents. What will people think?”

“Harold,” John is close enough now that he is whispering, “Look around you. Nobody cares.”

Harold does. He looks around quickly and sees couples walking hand in hand, tourists taking pictures, and people in suits hurrying towards their destinations. John is right. Nobody cares what they are doing.

Feeling heat rising up on his face, he looks back at – now alarmingly close- face of his partner, and reads the hope and eagerness in it. Closing his eyes and leaning forward to press their lips together in a chaste peck is very easy thing to do after that.

He can feel himself blushing to the tips of his ears, and when he opens his eyes, he sees John’s face bright with joy.

“Happy now?” He tries to sound disapproving to hide his embarrassment but fails miserably.

“Very,” John confesses, and then twists Harold’s tie- that’s still in his hand- and tugs him closer by it to kiss him one more time.

Before Harold can even form an objection, John is turning away, and walking towards the vendors with a distinct spring in his step. Harold stares, open mouthed, at the boldness and the childish mischief which John had just displayed, and is surprised to find that he is not even a little annoyed by the forward gesture. Fondness has taken up far too much space in his heart to leave room for any other emotion.

Eventually, he moves and sits on the bench, waiting for John to come back with food. He looks at his tie, which is now a wrinkled mess, and uselessly tries to smooth it down with his hand. Unconsciously, he touches his lips. He is as helpless to stop the pleased smile forming on them, as he is to stop the furious flush staining his cheeks. Safe in the moment, and in the knowledge of John’s love he lets himself feel the sentiment he has been running away from, for far too long: happiness.


	19. The World (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What are you looking at?"  
> "The world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so bigbunnimal([Unadvertently Romantic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/InadvertentlyRomantic/pseuds/InadvertentlyRomantic)) tagged me in [this](https://bigbunnimal.tumblr.com/post/157643629761/ashleybear-hat-b-is-as-whole-world-decided-to) post, and i LOVED the prompt so much that i wrote not one, but TWO ficlets for it. Thank you sweetie. I hope you like them.

John is sprawled lazily on a chair, reading. It’s a quiet day with no numbers yet, so they have settled in the library, enjoying the calm. Finch has been typing away all morning. John realizes he hasn’t heard the clicking of keys for a while now, and looks up.

Harold is sitting, both his hands cradling his face, and staring at the monitor. There’s something like awe on his face and John feels vaguely jealous. He watches Harold watch the screen for many long minutes, waiting for him to get back to typing. Instead, Harold seems transfixed.

Curious- because he has never seen Harold behave this way- he clears his throat.

Finch startles, pushing himself away and averting his eyes. Smiling, John teases, his intrigue bleeds into his words, “Harold?”

“Yes Mr. Reese?” The fake nonchalance is really not working, and the flush on Harold’s face tells that he knows this.

“What were you looking at?” He cuts to the chase, too interested to talk in circles around it.

Finch twists his mouth, considering how to answer. Then his eyes glint and he looks John right in his eyes and enunciates, “The world.”

John has no idea how to take that. It’s difficult to tell whether Harold is being truthful or sarcastic. Instead of explaining himself, Harold straightens and puts on a game face, jumping back into coding. John stares for a few moments and then shrugs. The man is an enigma, and he can hardly hope to unravel him.

A couple of hours later, Harold gets up and shuffles out of the room – presumably to go to washroom- and John feels his curiosity raise its head again. He gets up from where he is sitting and settles into the chair Harold just vacated.

If Finch really hadn’t wanted John to see what he was doing, he knew any number of ways to stop him from getting into his computer. Instead, the screen is unlocked. What is more is, there is a minimized picture file. That must be what Harold was looking at before… it’s a gut feeling.

Feeling like he is encroaching into Harold’s personal bubble, but too invested to stop now, he clicks the file. And stares blankly.

_What?_

The picture is of John, fairly old, though he has no idea when it was taken. He can tell at a glance that it is from his pre-CIA days. He has a grin on his face in the picture, his soul light, and hope in his eyes. Finch had infinite resources to track down old pictures, but it still doesn’t explain why he had been staring at it.

And why he had called it _the world_.                                                

A throat clears at his back and he hastily gets up, stumbling to his feet. He opens and closes his mouth, unable to excuse his deliberate nosiness, still too overwhelmed by his discovery.

Harold smirks, “Did nobody teach you snooping is bad etiquettes?” Though there is no heat behind his reprimand.

“Harold…” he croaks.

“Yes?” Finch teases deliberately, knowing what John is asking.

“That… that…” he has never felt so unmoored, so confused.

“I wasn’t lying John,” Harold’s voice turns softer, more genuine and he glances at the screen fondly. “You _are_ the world. At least to me.”

He says the words like they aren’t a revelation. Like they aren’t wreaking a havoc in John’s mind and soul. He states it like a fact. A promise.

“Harold…” His vocabulary seems to have shrunk to just this one word, the most important one.

“My dear.” Harold raises his hand to caress John’s cheek, and tugging to bring his face down. “My John,” he breathes against John’s lips before capturing them in a kiss.


	20. The World (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What are you looking at?"  
> "My world."  
> (A.K.A SO MUCH FLUFF)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My other scenario for the same prompt as the last chapter.

Finch wakes up in slow increments, well rested, his body feeling sated in more ways than one. Even before he opens his eyes he can feel the weight of his partner’s body near him, and he turns to nuzzle into the warm skin, burrowing his face and staying there for a few more moments.

“Good morning Harold.” He feels John turning towards him too, his fingertips trailing down Harold’s spine and raising goosebumps in their path. There’s a fondness in his tone, which makes Harold smile in reciprocation.

He turns back to lie flat, stretching his muscles, and opening his eyes slowly. The bed shifts and he turns his gaze to see John lying on his side, his hand cradling his face, arm bent and supported at elbow. He is looking straight at him.

Finch blinks at the scrutiny, at the heat in John’s eyes. It is far too early for such solemn contemplation. John’s gaze is roaming on his face, memorizing it, trying to find something. Harold has no idea what. There’s also admiration in it… and – Harold flushes at the realization- lust.

“What are you looking at?” Harold asks eventually, embarrassed by the inspection.

John’s eyes catch his, and his lips part. He struggles to form words, as if his brain is too caught up in something else to concentrate on vocalization. Eventually he speaks, his voice gravel rough- because of sleep, and something else, “My world.”

Harold gapes. He stares at John’s face, waiting for him to explain it; to take it back. But John just smiles self-consciously, and raises his other hand to trail his index finger lightly on side of Harold’s face, brushing away a stray hair.

Knowing he is blushing, to the very tip of his ears, and that his eyes are filling up with too much water threatening to spill, he looks away. There’s no place to hide though, not when he is lying naked, without any layers, just inches away from John. So he strategizes and curls towards John’s body rather than away, hiding his face in John’s chest, and groaning.

John laughs. Harold can feel the vibrations against his cheek. “I love you,” John confesses. Harold nods, too overwhelmed to speak, and John laughs again. He sounds happy.

Settling back, he wraps his arm around Finch’s frame, pulling him even closer, and sighing in contentment.

The morning sun shines through the window, the dust dancing in it, joyous. Much like Harold’s heart.


	21. Being Watched.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John watches Harold, and then finally does something about it. (Fluff. T-rated)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story mostly exists because of xLostLenore. The premise is hers. The whole plot formed in the chat with her. And was inspired basically by a picture of JC she showed me. Anyone who knows me knows that she is the reason for lots of my Rinch writing anyway, and this is no exception.

Harold realizes he is being watched. There’s a prickling sensation at the back of his neck that makes his spine tense up. He tries to keep typing, keep ignoring it, because he is in the library; he is safe here. But the niggling sense of being observed is distracting.

The worst part is… he knows who it is that’s watching him. It’s not a big leap. There’s only one person in the library with him, and that information, makes his palm sweat, and his heart race.

This is new. As is the way John has been constantly looking at him these past few weeks, as if solving a puzzle. The smile on his face has changed recently, from friendly to sort of… suggestive. The glint in his eyes, the timbre of his voice… the deliberate brush of his fingers on Harold’s skin whenever they find the opportunity-

Harold suppresses a shudder that threatens to wrack his frame, and tries to concentrate. This firewall won’t break itself.

John is sitting by the window, sprawled in his chair. Harold can see faint reflection of him on his computer screen. His eyes are trained towards Harold. They have been for a while. The lines of code blur in front of Finch’s eyes, and he knows that he would have to rewrite all of it. This can’t go on.

His fingers slow down their compulsive typing, until his hand is resting lightly on the keyboard, immobile. He takes a fortifying breath before turning, and raising his eyebrows at Reese, looking straight at him.

The ex-assassin grins at being caught staring-unapologetic- and Finch has to struggle to keep from grinning back. Instead, he tries to infuse disdain into his voice when he says, “What are you looking at Mr. Reese?”

John’s face grows contemplative, even if the smirk lingers, as if etched permanently on his features. He raises a hand, and rubs his thumb absentmindedly on his chin. Then he nods, as if making up his mind and looks back at Harold, making his breath hitch. Something has shifted in the air all of a sudden. There’s intent behind the Reese’s gaze, where before there was always slight flirtation.

“I was just thinking…” He stares at Harold’s face- his lips, Harold realizes with a jolt- and tapers off.

“What?” Harold’s throat is suddenly dry, his voice feeble.

“What would happen if I were to kiss you?” he wonders aloud, as if talking about weather.

“M-Mr. Reese?” Harold hates the stutter in his voice, but has no control over it.

“I wonder if your lips would be as soft as they look. If they would taste like the cherry balm you sometimes use. You see… I have been paying attention. And I have been pondering over this question for a while now. A long while.” He gets up from where he is sitting, the light from the window giving his outline an ethereal glow, “don’t you think it’s about time I find the answer to that?”

Finch opens and closes his mouth, trying to form words. He knew this was going to happen eventually, but now that it is, he has no idea how to respond. John takes a step forward, a threat and a promise all at once.

“Please don’t…” His voice is a mere whimper, and he can’t even feel ashamed. His heart is beating in his throat, drowning out every other noise.

“Please don’t what? Please don’t kiss you?” John chuckles, and keeps stepping forward, the distance across them shrinking. It wasn’t much before anyway. Harold leans back in his chair, trying to delay the inevitable. “You’re a scientist Harold. An analyst. Tell me… is your heart beating fast?”

Harold nods, too far gone to speak.

“Is it because of fear?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for reply, standing in front of Harold now, too close for comfort, and not close enough. “Or anticipation?”

“I don’t think…”

“That’s just it. Don’t think. Stop calculating and over analyzing.” John bends a little, and lightly brushing his index finger against Harold’s temple, making him shiver, “Turn that beautiful brain of yours off, just for a while. And just… feel.” He places both of his hands on the arm rests, effectively trapping Harold in his own seat. Harold can feel the warmth emanating from John’s body, and knows his eyes were wide, and his breath coming out rapid. He wonders if John can feel how his loud if heartbeat is, jackrabbit fast. If he can see what havoc John’s scent is playing on his nerves.

He starts to shake his head but then John is bending, his face just inches away. He looks straight into Harold’s eyes and whispers, hushed, “Tell me to stop Finch. Tell me you don’t want this… and I would.”

This is all it takes for all of Harold’s reservations to crumble, because despite all of his bravado, all of his strength, John would never take what wasn’t offered. He would always ask.

And Harold has never been able to tell him no. Not when it matters. And he has no desire to start doing it now.

He sighs, relaxing his posture which has been too tense, and slowly, making sure John notices, closes his eyes. He can hear how John’s next breath comes out shaky- can feel it on his skin. Then, just as deliberately, he tilts his head and purses his lips, waiting for John to make good on his promise.

He doesn’t have to wait long. He hears a whimper, both a plea and a thank you, before his lips are covered by John’s. As he lets the sensation overtake him he vaguely thinks how this is what inevitability tastes like, before he stops thinking at all.

* * *

 

[Picture that inspired it.](http://al12mn15.tumblr.com/post/157870132496/jim-caviezel)


	22. Fray.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold is having some minor unpleasant trouble in the library. John helps out. (Utter fluffy crack. T rated.)

“Mr. Reese,” Harold’s voice came through his ear piece, “Is Miss Penelope secure?”

“Yeah. I am just about finished here.”

“Good. When you’re done, can you head towards library for one more thing before retiring for the night?” The frustration in Harold’s voice registered to John all of a sudden.

“Is something wrong Finch?” he asked, already planning how he could reach library as soon as possible.

“In a way of speaking.” Yes, there it was. The testiness that was always a part of Harold’s tone, but exaggerated greatly at the moment. John could tell he was trying to hide it.

“Harold.” He was concerned now. “Are you okay?”

“Yes I am Mr. Reese,” he snapped, “there’s a matter of slight unpleasantness. Now if you would stop the needless prying and just hurry, it would be good for everyone.” And with that, he broke the connection.

Well.

That was strange. Harold almost never was this cross. He wondered what might be wrong, and felt a sharp pang at the realization that it might be his chronic pain acting up.

Maybe Harold would let John give him a massage. The thought made him smile.

After winding up the number with as much haste as feasible, he took a cab and got out a few blocks away from the library. Quickening his steps, his mind started cooking up horrible scenarios.

_What if there was a fire? What if Harold was trapped under a fallen bookcase? What if someone had found the place and was holding him hostage._

By the time he reached the library he had broken into an all-out run. Entering it, he called out, “Harold!”

It was a few heart stopping moments before he received a reply. “In here Mr. Reese.”

When he entered the main room of the library, he gaped. It looked like a wild animal was let loose here, and he honestly wondered if a shelf fell on Harold after all. If he didn’t know better, he would’ve thought Bear was responsible for it. But he was too well trained for that.

Harold on the other hand, was sitting on his usual spot, behind a computer screen. His ears, John noticed, were bright red.

“Did a storm happen to hit the library while I was away?” he wondered aloud, bewildered.

“Quite on the contrary Mr. Reese. It was a fly.” Harold was typing furiously, not meeting John’s wide eyes. _What the hell?_

“Excuse me.”

“You heard me right.” Harold replied, irritable.

“A fly?”

“I have no reason to believe your hearing is impaired. Yes John. A fly. In the library.”

“What happened?”

Harold finally looked at John’s face, and winced, “I tried to kill it.”

John didn’t know whether to gape or laugh.

“You what?”

“Yes. This is extremely amusing. I tried to kill a fly. Frankly hysterical. Can we get over it already?” Harold went back to typing, pressing keys with enough force to crush them.

“Did you manage to succeed at least?” He asked, trying to control his grin. Harold looked so grumpy, but telling him he was adorable would probably not be the best move at the moment. In any case, the mental image of Harold jumping around the library, trying to kill a fly, would probably help him through many bad days to come.

“If I did, I wouldn’t have called you. Would I?’ he replied, irritable.

“So I am your plan B.”

“Well Plan B is this algorithm I am writing, to create a laser that can track the movement of the fly around the entire area of the library and smite it, but I concede that I would like a quicker resolution of the problem.” Right at that moment, the fly buzzed past Harold’s ear, making him wave his hand in absolute annoyance. “This fly is driving me insane.”

He looked so close to losing his composure, and so adorably rumpled by it, that John moved forward, bent a little to kiss the hair on Harold’s head and smiled. “Leave it to me, My Lord. I will spill blood in your name.” He vowed, making Harold huff. It was more amusement than frustration, so he would call it a win.

He followed the fly until it settled on one of the shelf in the middle of the room, hidden from Harold’s view. Then picked a book and smashed it, watching it fall lifeless on the floor. It took hardly three minutes.

“Harold. Come here. See the ruined carcass of your enemy.” He had to admit, he was having far too much fun with the situation.

Harold shuffled towards him, a small smile playing at his lips. When he saw the dead fly, it became a full on satisfied grin, and he said a heartfelt. “Thank you John.”

“Just a thank you?” he teased.

“Well I have to admit you saved me from making an elaborate machine. You are much more adept at this than any non-sentient being can be.”

“I am touched Harold. That was almost a praise. Don’t you think my skill deserves a reward though?” Harold was in playful mood now, and John cherished them. They were rare and he always milked them for all their worth.

“Hmm,” Harold mused, “Historically speaking, slaughter and carnage, spilling blood, is known to waken certain… desires… in the knights.”

“Is it?” His lips formed a smile helplessly. God. He loved this man.

“Certainly. And considering it was me on whose behalf you entered into this fray, it seems only fair that I be the one to assist with those urges.”

“Sounds fair to me.” He felt his toes curling at the implication in Harold’s words.

“Well then. My brave gladiator…” Harold honest to God bit his lip, seeming to enjoy the look of lust on John’s face.

Then, very deliberately, holding John’s gaze… he slid down carefully to his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this came into being because a few days ago I was jumping around the room trying to kill a fly and SUCCEEDING and xLostLenore called me a good Reese. And I said, being annoyed by a fly was more HAROLD thing. And then we talked about this ridiculous scenario until this story plot existed. I hope it was good fun! (also everyone who leaves comments, please know you are very very VERY loved.)


	23. Coziness.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rinch early morning. (Absolute disgusting amount of fluffy fluff. G rated)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because xLostLenore was having not-so-nice day. This is for her. 
> 
> Also did I recently say HOW VERY VERY GRATEFUL I am that Rinch fandom exists? Because I am. Thank you for your support and encouragement. Because of you all... I see myself growing as a writer. THANK YOU.

John opened his eyes and let contentment seep into every joint of his body. Stretching in the bed like a cat- a panther- he felt the soreness in the muscles and relished in it. It was a testament to the fact that he was doing his job; saving people.

He turned to his left, and saw the reason for his contentment lying beside him. Curled slightly to his side, his hair messy, his face slack and peaceful, Harold was a picture of absolute serenity. He snuffled in his sleep, ruffling the pillow cover a bit and John was overcome with emotions at how absolutely _adorable_ he looked. Like a ruffled bird, consistent with the surnames he preferred.

It seemed only natural that Reese brought his hand up and pressed his index finger lightly on Harold’s nose. Booping it.

Harold furrowed his brows and shifted, making cute little expressions, and John squirmed because of how absolutely endearing it was.

Slowly, Harold blinked awake, and for a moment Reese thought he got away with it. That Finch wouldn’t have noticed it. Then confusion showed on his face and John knew he was caught. He turned a bit and hid his helpless smile into the pillow, because he could hear the next words even before Finch spoke them.

“Mr. Reese. Did you just… _boop my nose_?” There it was. The perplexity and the bewilderment, along with something close to fondness.

John just grinned wider, not looking at Finch’s face and nodded.

“John?” Harold sounded a little serious, touching his shoulder slightly, an entreaty to look at him.

“I am sorry. You just looked so cute, lying here beside me. In my bed. All mine. And I couldn’t help myself.” John admitted, looking back at Harold shyly.

Harold looked at him with sleepy love filled eyes- they always looked so much bigger without his glasses- and then, with all seriousness, “Beep,” he said, as he pressed his own finger to John’s nose.

John stared. Harold stared back.

Then all at once, he dissolved into giggle ill-fitting an ex- assassin. In front of him, Harold was chuckling too, a wide grin on his face, and all his usual defenses absent.

Once his giggles subsided, he lay back down on his back and stared at his ceiling, wondering how very different mornings are… when you can wake up next to the person you love. Beside him, Harold settled into a position mimicking his, and then moved a little until he found John’s hand and linked their fingers together.

There was no need to speak the words. They were obvious in every synced breath they took, in the way their fingers fit just perfectly together; in the way their hearts were glad.


	24. Appropriate Winter Attire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold doesn't think John dresses appropriately for winters. He helps.

The snow was falling pretty thick, as he and Harold stood on the sidewalk, his eyes tracking the number as she bought a newspaper and sat on a bench. John winced, and then shuddered lightly, just by the idea of how cold the steel bench must be. Compulsively, he took a sip of his hot coffee, willing it to chase the chill away.

He heard Harold huff exasperatedly, and moved his gaze to see how his partner’s breath was freezing midair, creating a mist. It really was terribly cold. He moved a bit until he was blocking the wind’s path, covering Finch, umbrella inching forward a bit until it sheltered the older man from the worst of the snow.

It was then that he noticed Harold’s eyes were trained on him, fond disapproval evident in them. How he managed to convey both the contrasting emotions by the up tilt of his eyebrow and the twist of his lips always amazed John.

“What?” he asked, because Harold was expecting him to know what he had done wrong, and no matter how much he thought about it, he couldn’t place it.

“How many times have we discussed this Mr. Reese?” Harold commented, and huffed again when John gave him a blank look. “The fact that a single coat is not appropriate attire for below freezing temperatures.”

Ah. Yes. They definitely had discussed this before.

“I don’t like layers Harold.” That was a lie. He liked layers just fine on his partner- loved them even- but on his own person… well they interfered in a fight. “I would rather be a little cold than die because the extra layers slow me down.”

Harold sighed. “Alright,” he accepted, “But you may just perish by catching pneumonia this way. That would definitely defeat the entire purpose of this exercise.” His eyes were lingering at John’s open collar.

“I am fine Finch,” he assured while glancing back at the number, oddly touched at the concern. It was just his luck that the wind took that moment to blow, a harsh freezing gust, chilling him to the bones. He shivered unconsciously.

Harold tutted. He instantly wanted to apologize, guilty eyes turning towards his boss again. The words died in his throat though. Harold was taking off his scarf.

“What?” he asked intelligently.

Harold didn’t reply. He kept unwinding the teal grey scarf from around his neck determinedly. When he was done, he took the cloth in his hands and turned towards John.

“It’s cold Harold.” He pointed out, unable to process what was happening.

“Exactly.” Harold smiled knowingly.

He was surprised at how unsurprised he was when Harold slid the fabric across John’s neck, wrapping it neatly and folding it until it lay neat around his neck. When Harold’s fingers smoothed the fabric, John took a large breath through his nose, inhaling the scent that was inherently Harold, and shivered once again. This time for an entirely different reason.

The little smirk on Harold’s lips told him that he knew the difference.

“Better,” Harold announced, satisfied.

John nodded, overwhelmed. And then took a large gulp of the coffee he was holding to do something else with his mouth. Something other than smashing it against Harold’s. He suddenly felt all warm, and wondered if this wasn’t worse than wearing layers. How was he supposed to concentrate like this? With Harold’s scent surrounding him, the soft fabric a reminder of this moment, the sensual touch of it an exquisite temptation

He wasn’t sure how this was better. But he really wasn’t inclined to remove it though.

John’s fingers moved up to caress the soft worn cloth lightly, his eyes tracking how gentle Finch’s smile was. It was obvious he enjoyed seeing a piece of his clothing on John’s person as much John was enjoying wearing it.

Movement at the periphery of his vision brought John back to the present. The number was moving. Fast. Nodding silently at Harold, he passed the umbrella over and strode quickly, not feeling the chill even a little bit.

He was warm.

John never gave the scarf back. Harold never asked for it either. He didn’t wear it very often- because it really was a liability in a fight, he wasn’t wrong about that- but he did wear it sometimes. The way Harold’s eyes dilated whenever that happened was worth it.

There were definitely some benefits to appropriate winter attire.

* * *

 

Inspired by this post [here](http://michaelssw0rd.tumblr.com/post/158279519063/robinsandza-art-by).   
(You can find the original art [Here](http://huaban.com/pins/432046977/), and [Here](http://huaban.com/pins/462212268/))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trust me. You wanna open those links. The fluff is absolutely not complete without these links.


	25. Quiet Contemplation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long day and Harold relaxes, and contemplates about life and John. (and aren't they the same thing anyway.)  
> FLUFF. G-rated. Inspired by wonderful art AGAIN.

Finally done with the Number, the perpetrator in Detective Carter’s hands, the victim safe while John covered the last of his tracks, Harold let himself relax. He stretched his back, hearing it pop and wincing at the sound. He was going to need a massage, or a hot bath. A smile strayed on his lips at that thought, of John scrubbing his back and massaging shampoo in his hair as they indulged in the Jacuzzi. After successfully saving two Numbers today, he was pretty sure they had earned this.

He got up from where he had been sitting for the better part of the day, and moved towards the back of the library where they had made a small makeshift kitchen. He started to make a cup of Sencha Green tea for himself. As he waited for the water to boil, he quietly contemplated over how far his and John’s relationship had progressed. They were still partners first and foremost, but had slowly grown to inhabit a deeper meaning of the word.

Even though he had been on call with him until a few moments ago, he missed the man. He missed his quiet presence that seemed to occupy the entire space when he was around, making it appear more comfortable… safer. Harold never could feel quiet as safe as he did with Reese’s arms around him, and it’s been ten hours since he had last had the luxury of that. It wasn’t a wonder that he missed it.

He put the brewed tea in a green cup, gifted by John _(“It’s green tea Harold, it should be drunk from a green cup,” he had explained and Harold had smiled fondly_ ) and took it with him to stand next to the window. In front of him, stretched out was the busy bustling city of New York. People chased all sorts of pleasures and companionships out there. Harold wasn’t very interested in them. He had everything he needed right here: the books, the machine, his mission and redemption, a perfectly made cup of tea, and the man he loved.

As if on cue, he heard the little click on his computer, signally someone had entered the library. He kept looking out, pretending this once, his partner would catch him unawares. Reese always tried to sneak up on him. He was never successful and he knew it. But it was still nice to pretend sometimes. When John entered through the door opening to the main room of the library, a little smile crept on his face, his eyes focused on the light outside the glass panes but his attention focused on the person behind him.

How could John ever imagine he would enter a room and Harold won’t notice? The man carried warmth with him like an aura. It was impossible to miss.

John walked right up to him, and slid his arms around his waist, pressing his front to Harold’s back.

“Hello Finch,” he murmured, sounding relaxed and happy. Then he proceeded to press his freezing nose against Harold’s neck.

“Mr. Reese, your nose is cold,” Finch yelped, flinching a little, and balancing himself as to not spill the tea from the cup he was still holding.

John’s arms around his waist tightened, “I know.” There was a grin on his face. Harold could tell without even looking, by the tone of his voice, and the ghost of his breath on his skin. “I am warming it up.”

John rubbed his nose on his neck, nudging it behind his ear, back and forth.

“Need I remind you I am not your personal space heater?” Harold complained halfheartedly.

“Hmm. Could’ve fooled me.” John replied, completely unrepentant.

Harold pressed himself against the heat of John’s frame at his back, to counteract the cold extremity torturing him, but even that was a feeble protest. John’s nose was already warm enough to not be an annoyance anymore. It was becoming more of a tantalizing suggestion.

John sighed behind him, not hiding his exhaustion. Harold took a sip of the tea and John kissed his neck lightly and then pressed his forehead against his shoulder and groaned.

“Long day?” Harold asked, rhetoric. They both knew it had been one.

John hummed in response.

“Ready to go home then?” Harold asked, and John nodded against his shoulder without raising his head, rocking them both side to side a little. It was a comforting movement. Made Harold want to put on slow songs and turn around in John’s arm to rock properly, moving to the rhythm. Maybe some other day. He had other plans for now.

He placed one hand on the arm around his waist, tugging gently. John loosened his hold but not without a grumble of protest. Stretching his arm a little, Harold placed his empty cup on a table and then turned completely, looking at the satisfied but tired figure of his lover.

“How do you feel about the Jacuzzi tonight?” he asked, matter of fact.

John inhaled sharply, and then nodded, eyes already darkening with the implication. They were too exhausted to do anything demanding, but Harold wanted to spend some time with his lover. It seemed John agreed.

“I thought so.” Harold smirked, and then moved to gather his coat. After he was done wrapping himself in appropriate layers, he glanced at John and asked.

“You coming?”

“Yeah.” John slid an arm around his back, proprietary, as they made their way home. Together.

* * *

 

Inspired by [THIS](http://huaban.com/pins/432046878/) wonderful art piece. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OPEN THE LINK. TO SEE WONDERFUL ART. YOU WANT TO. TRUST ME.


	26. Stay there.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [the_ragnarok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/profile) prompted me: "Stay there. I am coming to get you" from the [One Hundred Ways to Say ‘I Love You’](http://michaelssw0rd.tumblr.com/post/159569758473/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you) post.
> 
> That's the story. Reese!Whump. Hurt/comfort. G-rated.

John stirs, a groan spilling from his lips. The first thing he registers is pain. Everywhere. Having no memory of how he got here, he tries to focus on his surroundings. It’s difficult to open his eyes, his vision blurry. He wonders why everything is so dark, panicking for a moment, before realizing its night.

The next thing he registers is the smell. He is apparently lying in a dumpster.

And just like that, he remembers what happened. A Number. An amateur gang. Getting caught. The gang deciding they couldn’t risk him being a cop and beating him up. If John has to guess, he would say they probably panicked after hitting him too hard on the head, and decided to dump him here. Wanting to get away from the smell, and slightly concerned about what the rotting food and the insects might do to his open wounds, he tries to sit up but groans again. He’s sure he has broken at least one bone.

Slowly, the rest of his senses start working, and he registers the constant clamoring in his ear. It sounds like a familiar voice, panicked. It takes him a few more minutes to recognize the voice as Harold’s- home, his fuddled senses decide- calling his name.

“Mr. Reese, can you hear me? Mr. Reese?” Finch keeps repeating, and he wonders how long has he been going on like that. He tries to open his mouth to answer but no voice comes out. “Please, answer me when you can John. Are you alright? Are you there?”

John takes a deep breath, and swallows around his dry throat. The worry in Finch’s voice is stirring a different kind of ache inside his chest and it’s unbearable. Much worse than the possibly broken ribs. Finally, he tries to manage a choked, “Harold.”

There’s silence in response, and then a hushed, “Mr. Reese?”

“Yeah.” Speaking hurts, but it’s worth it to hear Finch sigh in relief.

“Thank heavens. You had me worried. How are you?”

John can’t really see himself, but he knows he is supporting multiple bruises, and is bleeding from more than one spot. “Fine.” He says.

Harold snorts in disbelief. He knows him too well. “I can hardly believe that. But at least you are coherent. Can you tell me where you are?”

For a second he wants to joke, telling Harold he is in a garbage dump, because he is garbage, but he realizes he doesn’t have the strength for it. He needs to conserve his energy for the important things. Instead John sits up a bit, and looks around. He is in very unfamiliar part of city. He notices a street sign and reads it out loud to Harold, his voice breathy and barely audible.

“Alright. I can work with that. Stay there Mr. Reese. I am coming to get you.”

He tries to protest. Tries to say “No. Don’t Finch. It’s not safe.” But it comes out garbled and broken, and he can already hear Harold shuffling. Harold disconnects the call with a “Don’t do anything stupid Mr. Reese.”

John considers this. Considers what may be considered stupid. It would definitely be downright idiotic to lead Finch to where the gangsters had dumped him. They might still be watching. He could not put Harold in unnecessary danger.

Painfully, he pushes himself up, and climbs out of the dumpster, stifling a scream at the shooting pain he experiences when he puts weight on his left leg. Fractured tibia then. His breathing is painful, coming in gasps, and he is suspecting fractured ribs as well. When he presses his hand to his aching abdomen, the sticky wetness reminds him of the knife wound, still bleeding apparently. He wants to collapse back into the pile, the trash bags seeming very inviting, like a soft bed to lay his head. But Finch is walking into danger, recklessly, and he needs to take action.

Slowly, with every step an agony, he starts walking towards the end of the road. He has barely walked a few yards before his broken leg gives out. He cannot even muffle the scream that leaves his mouth as he falls to the ground.

He welcomes the darkness. It feels like a friend.

* * *

When he wakes up again, he is disoriented, unable to figure out where he is and how he got here. He doesn’t immediately open his eyes, military training kicking in, and takes inventory. Soft bed beneath him, clean antiseptic smell, and the sound of hospital machinery. These things tell him he isn’t in a hostile environment. But it’s not until he hears the calm familiar voice that he relaxes.

“How is he doing Ms. Shaw?” Finch is asking, to which he hears Shaw say, “He’s a tough bastard Finch. He will be okay.”

“Thank you,” Harold says, relieved.

John feels Harold grasp his hand. He is going to open his eyes in a second, but he feels so warm, and safe, and content. Surrounded by Harold’s voice and grounded by his touch.

He sleeps.

* * *

Shaw is frowning at him, standing at his bedside, when he opens his eyes the next time.

“That bad huh?” he croaks. Shaw picks up a glass and hands it over. John takes a grateful sip from the straw.

“You scared us.” She admits, matter of fact. _Us_ , John notices, not _me_. Something must’ve registered on his face, because Shaw moves aside, letting him see behind her.

Harold is slumped in the chair near John’s bed, fast asleep. He looks exhausted.

“He hasn’t left your side ever since you got here,” she confirms his suspicions.

John looks at her accusingly, conveying his disappointment with her for allowing that. “Well, _you_ should try talking him out of something when he has set his mind on it.” She shrugs. John has to give her that. Harold can out-stubborn anyone.

Shaw’s face softens a little, as she reprimands, “And maybe this will teach you to be less careless with your safety next time. You aren’t the only one who suffers because of it.”

“Thank you.” He doesn’t just mean it for stitching him up, but also for caring. Shaw, for all that she pretends to be heartless, smiles in understanding.

“Anytime Reese. But really, it’s Finch you should be thanking.”

She looks at him meaningfully, before injecting him with some drugs- and by the way his pain lessens, he realizes he would also be dozing off soon. Recognizing his need to be alone, she leaves him alone soon after.

Later, he will listen to Harold chastise him for his cavalier attitude towards his safety.

Later, he will watch Harold frown in displeasure and worry, and will feel guilty at how happy that makes him; it always takes him off guard to realize how much the man cares.

Later, he will thank him- his heart bursting with gratitude- for saving him… again. Harold will blush and brush it away as nothing, but John will file it away as yet another debt he can’t ever hope to pay back.

He will do all of that later, and maybe, Harold will allow him to press reverent apologetic kisses to his lips, and celebrate the fact that he is alive. Because if he died, he wouldn’t be able to experience this again.

But for now, Harold is asleep, so John watches the peaceful lines of his face and smiles at the soft snuffling sounds he makes in his sleep, his glasses almost slipping off his face. Feeling the insistent tug of slumber, the medicines kicking in, John syncs his breathing with the rise and fall of Harold’s chest, until he follows the stubborn, beloved man into the land of the dreams.


	27. Moments of Bliss.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold and John relax after saving a number. It's all just happy domesticity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is written for [Leena](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xLostLenore) because she has been absolutely brilliant, and going through not-so-easy time and yet been so... well... amazing. But nothing new there. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it dear.

Harold felt John flop on the couch beside him and smiled. He put his book down, turning to look fondly at the ex-agent. Exhaustion lined his features, but was overpowered by the quiet satisfaction glowing in his eyes- saving children always seemed to affect John deeply.

“Everything went well I presume?”

In answer John just nodded, grinning, and then maneuvered his body until he could lie down with his head in Harold’s lap, his legs hanging down the arm-rests of the sofa. Harold chuckled lightly. It was less rare now, to see John act so carefree, the baggage he carried all the time forgotten for the moment, and it never failed to make Harold’s heart brim with warmth and affection.

He stared down at the beloved face, at the bright hopeful eyes, the sharp nose, the full, unfairly distracting lips. Harold didn’t think he would ever stop being enchanted by it, even though he had been looking at these features for a long time now. First through a screen, then from a polite distance between two colleagues, and lately from the other side of the bed- as the first face he saw as he woke up- always right there… close enough to touch.

And why should he deprive himself of the pleasure of touching anyway? He was allowed. He was _wanted._

Harold delicately traced the dips and curves of John’s face, watching the smile grow with every passing minute, as John stared back at him. He ended up combing his fingers through John’s salt and pepper hair, and the man sighed in contentment, closed his eyes, and downright purred under his fingers.

Harold chuckled again. This was ridiculous. “What do we propose we do now Mr. Reese?”

John shrugged slightly, opened one eye to squint at Harold, and then closed it back. “What were you reading?”

Harold was surprised at the non sequitur, but answered anyway, “The universe in a nutshell.”

“Hawking?” John asked. Harold reminded himself that he ought to stop being surprised by John’s knowledge… he was a formidably intelligent man.

When he replied in assent, John smiled gently and requested, “Read to me.”

“You enjoy Hawking?” While Harold could believe the man had some knowledge about most genres of literature, he doubted John would be interested in theoretical physics. He was far too grounded, too involved with the problems of humanity, to care about what lay deep in space.

John confirmed his reservations when he snorted, “God no.”

“Then?”

John opened his eyes now, looking at Harold with utter sincerity saying, “I like listening to your voice,” before letting a hint of teasing overtake his features.

Harold huffed. Fair enough. He picked up his book again, and started reading aloud, “ _Because energy density is, like matter, a source of gravity, this infinite energy density ought to mean there is enough gravitational attraction in the universe to curl space time into a single point, which obviously hasn’t happened._

 _One might hope to solve the…._ ”

He lost track of time while speaking, his fingers still gently ruffling through John’s hair, his breath synced unknowingly with the breaths of the man in his lap. When John shuffled, a long while later, curling towards Harold, he stopped reading. John looked almost close to dozing off… it had been a long day, and he should probably be in bed, resting properly.

“Don’t stop,” John murmured sleepily.

“This cannot be very comfortable John,” he protested.

John shook his head lightly, barely moving, making a picture of absolute ease and contentment. If Harold wasn’t so close, he might’ve considered it his imagination when he heard the man mutter a quiet, “No place I’d rather be.”

Harold was awestruck for a moment, his fingers stopping their continuous movement. When John pushed his head into his palm, like a feline asking to be petted, Harold let out a disbelieving laughter, and resumed playing with John’s hair.

‘ _No place I’d rather be_ ,’ he whispered to himself. Well… he could surely relate to that feeling. He opened his book again, and continued reading, grateful for these small moments of utter bliss in between their unending mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I updated this after a whole month. Woah. It seems like a long time.


	28. Domestic Felicity.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John appreciates the quiet domestic moments of their lives together. They may not be exciting, but he thinks there is something warm and beautiful in how _easy_ they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't gift chapters here (why, dammit) but this is inspired by the prompts post by [Sky](http://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky), so this is for you dear. I always ALWAYS am in need and want for rinch fluff too, and my shipper heart feels what you feel <3

“I am going to take a shower,” Reese glanced towards the door, and back towards his partner.

Finch seemed to not even have heard him, engrossed as he was in whatever code he was trying to unravel at the moment. Because of the late hour- and his obvious exhaustion- Harold had relocated himself to bed, reclining with help of pillows, but still typing away at his laptop. John couldn’t help suppress the small, fond smile that tugged on his lips before clearing his throat.

“I said,” he spoke louder, startling Harold slightly. “I am going to take a shower.”

Harold frowned, the glasses on his nose slipping a little before he pushed them back. “Surely you don’t need my permission before attending to your personal hygiene, Mr. Reese.”

John grinned. He knew when his partner was being deliberately obtuse- he was always more cranky when he was tired. “I was just wondering if you would like to join me.”

He didn’t phrase it like a question, he phrased it like an invitation, and took fierce pleasure in Harold’s pupils dilating, the want on his face obvious, before it shuttered off into regret. “I am afraid I can’t. I really need to finish this algorithm.”

John shrugged. He knew it was always a possibility, and he had long since stopped being jealous of technology like a jilted mistress. It was important to Harold, so it was important to him.

“As you wish.” He turned around, opening the door, contemplating teasing Harold with stripping in front of him before deciding against it. Harold wouldn’t have declined the offer if he didn’t think he had to.

“Perhaps,” Harold voice paused his steps, “Perhaps you should ask me again… in the morning.”

John smirked, turning his face around slightly so that Harold could see it. “Perhaps I would.”

He heard the clicking of keys resuming, but he could feel Harold’s smile even through them, the tapping considerably more cheerful than it had been a moment ago. Harold talked as much through the way he used a keyboard as he did with words, and years of hearing it constantly through his earpiece had made Reese somewhat of an expert in telling Harold’s mood through just that.

He shook his head slightly, in self-deprecation. He really was too far gone, and he couldn’t even bring himself to mind it.

John took his time in the shower, enjoying the hot stream soothing his aching, overused muscles. Here, he let the water wash away the bitter aftertaste that the ugly face of humanity always left after particularly difficult numbers. He wished he could’ve coaxed Harold in here anyway… the man needed as much unwinding as he did, the circles under his eyes testament to his exhaustion. Just because John knew his partner was a workaholic, didn’t mean he should let him ignore his well-being.

He stepped back into the room with a bathrobe and a towel casually slung around his neck, saying, “The water is…”

John trailed off at the sight that greeted him, and then a slow smile spread across his face. Finch had fallen asleep where he was reclining, the laptop still perched on his lap _. Stubborn_ , he thought fondly. Cautiously, not wanting to wake the tired man, he went to Harold’s side of the bed and slid the lid of the laptop close and gently he pried it from his hands. The fact that Harold didn’t startle told John everything about his state of exhaustion. Carefully, oh so carefully, he took off Harold’s skewed glasses, folding them and putting them within easy reach on the side table.

He contemplated for a moment then, wondering if he should disturb him at all, before deciding that it was eventually better than Harold waking up in pain. He slowly readjusted the man, ignoring his weak protests, and settled the pillows in a way he knew Harold preferred. Harold grumbled, but with John’s quiet shushing he didn’t break out of his slumber.

Finally, John adjusted the blanket around the now comfortably sleeping man, and overcome with affection, he bent down and left a lingering kiss on his forehead.

In sleep, Harold smiled beatifically, before sighing contently, “John.”

John felt like his heart would burst with all the love it contained and he couldn’t stop his smile, nor the urge to press another kiss on Harold’s forehead. There was something acutely intimate about the moment, about the vulnerability Harold chose to show him, and the trust. As he settled into bed, he decided that anyone who ever complained about domesticity being boring had no idea what they were talking about. He would take this over a passionate tumble in the sheets any day.

And well- he grinned to himself before closing his eyes- for the latter, he had been promised a joint shower in the morning.


	29. Withdrawal Symptoms.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [MnemonicMadness ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness) prompted me: "Wink" for Rinch.
> 
> Utter disgusting fluff. Also slightly cracky.

“Maybe I should pay him a visit, show him what happens when you break the law.” John stares at the screen from behind Harold, grinning at his reflection, and _winks_.

The resigned sigh he gets in reply, the climbing of eyebrows, and the frown, is gratifying.

“Mr. Reese, will you please desist doing that?” There is a whole world of annoyance in Finch’s voice, and John wonders if he is a terrible person for enjoying it so much.

“What? I am not doing anything?” John knows he is smiling too much for it to be convincing.

Harold spins his seat around and rubs the bridge of his nose, looking at John with disapproval. “You have winked at me no less than five times since morning Mr. Reese.”

“I hav-”

Harold cut him off before he could try and get out of it.  “I get it. You’re overjoyed because of our activities last night. But that’s no reason for such a behavior. If you keep doing it I will have to assume you have developed some sort of affliction of your eyelid muscles.”

John bites his lip from outright breaking into laughter. Harold might have gone ahead and made air quotes around ‘ _activities last night’_ by the emphasis he put on the words but the slight blush on his face told John he wasn’t unaffected.

“Maybe I _have_ developed some sort of disease Harold. You know, because of last night. Maybe I am having withdrawal symptoms.”

Harold gapes at him for a second. It’s so hard to keep a straight face but John maintains it, even as he sees Harold’s expressions go from astonishment to contemplation.

“I wonder,” he starts, mischief twinkling in his eyes. _Uh-oh_. “I wonder if a kiss may alleviate the symptoms.”

John’s heart beat quickens. For all his teasing, he wasn’t expecting Harold to join in. He licks his lips, anticipation rising in his chest, and sees Harold’s eyes track the movement of his tongue. “It wouldn’t hurt to try.” He tries for nonchalance but it comes out breathless.

It’s Harold’s turn to grin now. “Then I suppose you better get back to work, or you aren’t receiving any _treatment_.” And then, he goes ahead and lands the final blow by winking as he says the last word.

John stares, unable to believe that just happened. Harold has swiveled his chair to face the screens again, but John notices the small self-satisfied smirk on his lips, which grows as John can’t help throwing his head back and laughing.

He decides to better focus on work then, thinking that maybe he can convince Harold for a repeat performance of last night. His withdrawal symptoms are dire, after all.


	30. Things to remember.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold asks John to remember some things for him.
> 
> M-rated. Praise!kink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Bliphany ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bliphany) prompted me: Remember.
> 
> Thanks sweetie. You're lovely.
> 
>  **DISCLAIMER** : I have a sinking suspicion I have read something similar before, along the same lines. I don't remember where I read it, so like... if someone finds it familiar too, please give me a link so I can properly credit the person.
> 
> EDIT: Vaguely inspired by [THIS FIC.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/903968)

“Comfortable?” Harold asked, settling down in bed.

“Yes.” John checked to make sure anyway. He trusted Harold, but Harold trusted him to be sure before answering. His bindings were secure, but did not cause any discomfort.

“Good.” Harold smiled, rolling up his sleeves. He stroked John’s naked chest, trailing his fingers up his neck to rest his palm against his jaw. John nuzzled into it, lightheaded already, and they had barely begun. “Before we start, I want you to remember some things for me.”

“Anything,” John promised, and he meant it with all his heart. Harold could ask for the sun, and he would burn his wings trying to reach for it, to pluck it from the sky and place it at Harold’s feet.

Harold waited until he had John’s his full attention, before he started speaking. “I want you to remember you are _needed_.” To emphasize his words, he touched the still tender knife would on his arm, his eyes flitting to it for a moment. “You aren’t dispensable John. There is no one who could replace you. This crusade that we started, you are essential for it. I cannot continue doing it without you.”

He looked back into John’s eyes, his own pained. John wanted to hide from the sincerity in them, the intensity that burned more than the metaphorical star John wished to steal for the man. “Harold…” he whispered, both a plea, and an apology.

Some of the solemnness on Harold’s face faded, and he ran his fingers through John’s hair, bending a little to leave a fleeting kiss on his lips. He withdrew before John could surge into it, chuckling at his desperation.

“We are talking right now.” He chastised, but belied his words by running appreciative hands over John’s sides, caressing his thighs, leaving a trail of fire on John’s skin.

“Second thing I want you to remember, Mr. Reese, is that you are _wanted_.” Harold’s eyes devoured him, the hunger in them unmistakable, and John found himself trembling at the words. “That should not come as a surprise, but I think you could do with a reminder. I want you, all of you. The feel of your skin, the taste of your moans. Your laughter, your tears, your body and your very soul; everything you are willing to give me, and desperately, _shamefully,_ more. My desire for you knows no restraint… and I am very lucky to have you. You are everything I can ever want.”

Harold spoke while his fingers kept touching him, his words tearing John’s defenses apart, his caresses making him tremble. Easily, with just a few words, Harold had reduced John to a mess, wrecking him, and he didn’t even seem to notice. A sob left his chest, making him realize there were tears on his face. He wasn’t aware of when he had started crying, so lost he was in Harold’s voice.

The sound of his sob brought Harold back to the present, and he cupped his face in both of his hands, whispering his name, before brushing away his tears with his thumb, and peppering light kisses on his face, on his eyelids.

He pulled away after a while, staring into John’s eyes again while still cupping his face. His voice was sincere, as he made his last declaration, his eyes searing it in John’s memory, daring him to defy it.

“Last thing I want you to remember, my Dear John, is that you are _loved_.” John sobbed again, but Harold was merciless in his assault. “Not for the things I need you for, nor for the things I want from you. But you are loved for the person you are. A good man. The very best. You are loved, for all the mistakes you’ve made, and all the scars you’ve accumulated; all the ways the world has broken you, and all the ways you have fought back. I have no illusions John. I _know_ you. I know what kind of a man you are. And I love you.”

John was gone. Lost. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t _breathe_. He stared at the face of the man who saved him, who believed in him, and who _owned_ him, through the veil of fresh tears, and thought he would die from all the love he had in his heart.

A part of him- desperate for everything that Harold had offered but convinced that he didn’t deserve it- wanted to rebel against it. Wanted to forget everything that Harold had asked him to remember. So it was a good thing that Harold stopped speaking then, and started using a language not even John could fight. Determined, as he was, Harold spent the rest of the night proving to John everything he had said:  that he was needed. Wanted. Loved.


	31. Disillusioned.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [MnemonicMadness ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness) prompted me: "Disillusioned" for Harold.

Harold was a cynic.

It was hard not to be, when one faced the grim realities of human nature every day. He believed what he saw, what he could prove… and the goodness-of-humanity was something with too much evidence against it. If he ever had faith- in his country, in justice- his best friend dying in front of his eyes for committing the crime of _helping people_ , had quickly disillusioned him of any such sentiments.

He didn’t believe in unquantifiable things like faith, trust, or hope.

But when he looked at John, his gentle smiles and kind eyes, his sheer determination to do good, and his constant battle against his demons, he felt the very same hope stir in his chest. When he saw John, sacrificing himself over and over again, to save people, to save _him_ , he wondered if it would be too bad to give in.

Love was an illusion- a magical, fantastical illusion. Yet, he didn’t want to fight its pull, to take a scalpel and dissect the emotion until it bled ugly truths.

Just this once, he let himself fall, hoping- irresponsibly, foolishly- that there would be welcoming arms at the bottom, waiting to catch him.


	32. Distractions.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold does not feel comfortable with John cleaning his guns in the library. There's more than one reason for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the LOVELY [InadvertentlyRomantic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/InadvertentlyRomantic/pseuds/InadvertentlyRomantic). She wanted Harold's reaction to John using guns, in a fluffy/smutty fic. It's more fluffy than smutty but I had fun.

Harold knew he had a weakness. Just one: John’s hands. More specifically, John’s hands when they caressed the barrels of the guns, sure and confident, going through the motions that were basically muscle memory by now.

Okay maybe he had two weaknesses, because he couldn’t stop staring when John pursed his lips and blew air inside the cylinder. And the focus in John’s eyes, the intensity, was yet another weakness on its own, together with the surge of illogical jealousy that accompanied it.

Alright so maybe Harold had a competence kink. It wasn’t surprising. He had never been someone who indulged in idle fancy. Everything had a purpose, and the better it served that purpose, the more valuable it was. And John, well John was competence incarnate, his every move calculated, every word important, every muscle trained to be efficient and useful.

When you come to think of it, Harold did have only one weakness after all, one thing that was sure to wreak havoc on Harold’s senses, distracting him to the point until he forgot basic codes, and making him unable to do anything but be hopelessly enchanted. And that weakness was _John_.

So really, he wasn’t to be blamed for staring right now, as John expertly cleaned the guns, in the middle of the library, again. Harold had told him off many, many times. And only the first few times had been because of his discomfort at having dangerous weapons so close to him. He didn’t lie… he wasn’t exactly comfortable having John do this in the library twice a week, but the reasons for that were not what John probably expected.

He resigned himself to not being able to work for the time it took John to be done with his weapon maintenance, and relaxed into his seat. If he was going to waste time, he might as well enjoy it. His eyes lingered, proprietary, at the way John’s muscles flexed and bunched, the way his movements were fluid and graceful, and he wistfully reminisced about the time when the sight of weapons filled him with dread. It surely was better than the low hum of arousal that accompanied the sight these days. If he didn’t know better, he would think John conditioned him like that on purpose, deliberately showing off how _skilled_ he was, how adept at handling guns, boasting in his ear about his prowess and then proving it, over and over again. Harold was only human after all.

“See anything interesting, Finch?” John’s voice made Harold startle out of his day dream. He felt a blush creep up on his face and he decidedly turned his face away, not wanting to see the smirk on John’s face at being caught staring.

“Nothing Mr. Reese?”

“Hmm,” John mused, and dammit, Harold could _hear_ the smirk even without seeing it. “That’s strange, because I could’ve bet you were appreciating the view.”

Harold looked back at him, saw the way John’s eyes were glinting with mischief and gaped. “You! You were doing this on purpose.”

John shrugged, not denying the allegation. “What can I say? I am a man of simple pleasures.”

“And pray tell, what those might be?”

“Oh, just the way your breath hitches when I do this.” John took a rag and carefully, intimately, ran it down the smooth metal, making Harold remember all the times John had caressed his skin similarly, making his breath, oh what the hell, hitch. John grinned in victory. “And the way your pupils dilate, and your hands clench futilely when I do this…”

“That’s quite enough Mr. Reese,” Harold sighed, stopping further calculated assault on his senses. “You have proved your point.”

John put down the guns then, and stood up, a predator in every sense. Harold should not find it as attractive as he did. “I like flustering you. I like knowing I am more interesting than your code, knowing that I can distract you away from it.” John stalked towards him, and Harold’s mouth ran dry, his heartrate spiking. “It’s a heady rush.”

“And still you focus on your… ammunition… instead of taking advantage of your carefully orchestrated distraction.” Harold was not going to pout, he wasn’t, but he had been bewitched by this routine far too many times to not feel cheated.

“Are you jealous of my guns, Harold?”

“No!” And he was totally pouting, against his will. He stood up as John approached, trying to balance out the height as to not feel like a prey being hunted, but it only allowed John to corner him against the desk more easily.

“You are,” John chuckled delightedly, and Harold felt his face heat up. “You are jealous of the way I handle my guns.”

“So what if I am? Is it so wrong to begrudge the way you are practically fondling and…and-molesting- your equipment.”

John smirked, and the action promised so many sinful things that Harold’s knees quivered. John bent closer, practically whispering in his ear now. “I wonder, if you’re upset because I am molesting the guns, or because I am not molesting _you_.”

Harold swallowed heavily, knowing that was a rhetorical question. John knew the answer to that. John’s other hand came to rest on Harold’s neck, fingers stroking, caressing, making liquid heat bloom just under Harold’s kin, pool in his stomach. He whimpered. “That’s what I thought.” John murmured, annoyingly smug.

He pulled away, despite the whine of protest that left Harold’s throat, and Harold tried to be annoyed at the way there was tease and mischief written even in the curve of John’s eyebrow, for heaven’s sake. He wished he had enough functioning brain cells to come up with a clever retort, but they had all overloaded and fried while he watched John expertly dismantle the guns, before turning his skills at dismantling Harold’s composure. The two things were more interlinked than Harold cared to admit.

“We can’t have that, can we? Don’t you think it’s about time I paid attention to my lover, properly, so he would not stop doing absurd things, like being jealous of mere weaponry?” John’s fingers were on the buttons of his waistcoat now, playing with them, and Harold really should shut up.

“You like your weaponry.” He pointed out.

“I do.” John glanced up, something bashful in his gaze peeking from behind the mischief, “but I like you more.”

Well, earnest John, Harold found out, he was utterly defenseless again. So it was entirely John’s fault that Harold muffled a moan against John’s lips at that, pulling him closer and pouring his want into the kiss John eagerly returned.

And John, excellent lover that he was, spent the next few hours showing Harold exactly how skilled he was with his hands, with his touches and strokes. How adept, at taking apart the things he cherished and putting them back together.


	33. Comfortable Silences.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John knows there are many different meanings behind silences, behind the gaps in conversation. It takes him off-guard to find that it doesn't have to be like that.  
> That it could be comfortable... easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a gift-fic for Leena because she asked for their comfortable silences to be addressed and acknowledged! And also because she is a darling who inspires me everyday.  
> I hope you enjoy this dear <3\. Thank you for nudging me out of my writers block.

There’s something to be said about the implicit language of silence.

John was rather adept at understanding it, deciphering it. Sometimes, his very life had depended on it. It was prudent to know the difference between what a tentative silence sounded like, compared to a threatening one. The air felt different in the quiet that preceded moments of sudden attack, the tang of blood identifiable in every breath. The stillness that followed someone’s threat can tell you how likely it was that they will follow it through… if you knew how to listen.

And the violent silences weren’t the only ones John was accustomed to.

Kara had taught him what a disappointed silence was like; Mark made him proficient at reading a scornful one; Jessica was full of frustrated quiet moments, ones tinged with sadness. He knew of the other kinds as well, with the life he had led. There were times with the hush meant boredom and times when it meant desire. It could be happy, ominous, hopeful, terrified, anticipatory, irritated, and any number of other things.

John had not known it could be ever be comfortable.

For how less he spoke, John was a man who was accustomed to constant noise around him. The lack of it, set his teeth on edge. Because the quiet had always meant he was supposed to do something, he was always meant to fix it somehow, make the silence stop being so terribly loud.

He could never, in his live, have guessed that one day, he would rejoice in it; find it peaceful. But here, in the library, with Harold busy with his coding, he found that, unexpected as it was, he was grateful for it. There was something about Harold’s presence that brought out the sentiment. When he was quiet, his expressions didn’t make John worry that he had somehow messed up, that he should be apologizing for something. Instead, it felt like contentment.

Noticing his scrutiny, Harold looked up at him, a slight raise of eyebrow conveying his question better than words ever could. John smiled unconsciously, helplessly, and shook his head. Harold’s gaze was considering, and then he nodded and immersed himself in his work again, leaving John to his reading and contemplation.

And that was it… wasn’t it?

Words were unnecessary, because that’s how they talked: with the shifts in the air, minute movements of their expressions, and the tilts of their mouths. Better yet, that’s how they understood each other. Spoken words left so many things to desire, so many chances of misinterpretation, but you couldn’t read the silence wrong. The affection in it had a distinct aura, a taste, and it was impossible to mistake it for anything else.

So that’s what John always did: he kept his mouth closed, let the hush of the library, of Harold’s barely audible breaths permeate the air, and basked in it.

Once, after they finished their dinner and were cuddling on the couch, he told Harold about it. Told him how much their comfortable silences meant to him. Harold got oddly flustered at that, his cheek tinging pink.

“It used to grate on Nathan,” he explained, “especially when I got buried in coding and didn’t speak for days. I tried to get rid of the habit, but words have never been my strong suit. Despite being quite verbose, and knowing what the individual word means, I have the unfortunate tendency to say exactly the wrong thing.”

“Harold… you don’t have to explain anything to me.”

“Grace used to find my fumbling amusing, and dare I say, adorable. But it is exhausting to try and choose the correct words, pretend to like dialogue when I would much rather… not.”

“You _are_ adorable Harold, but as I just said, I am glad we don’t feel compelled to fill every moment with meaningless chatter.”

“I suppose there is something to be said about understanding each other without using language as a crutch.”

Warmed to the core, John realized there were times when speaking had its advantages. But still, “I like it.” John nuzzled into his neck, breathing him in.

“I know you do.” Harold kissed his hair fondly, his arm curling around him, wrapping him in his protective embrace. John didn’t need to be an expert in deciphering silences to know this one was suffused with tenderness, that it whispered the words of love.


	34. Bench Kisses.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For talkingtothesky.  
> Inspired by this [WONDERFUL ART SKY MADE](http://talking2thesky.tumblr.com/post/163018001813/imminent-bench-kissesi-traced-99-of-this-from). Look! You are keeping up the tradition of inspiring me endlessly.

“Thanks for agreeing to this, Finch.” John sat down on the bench beside him, while bear happily nuzzled against his leg. “Bear missed you.”

The dog wasn’t the only one who missed him, but Harold could hear it in his tone. John didn’t need to say it.

Harold bent a little to scratch Bear behind his ears, and then unbuckled his leash. He watched the dog run towards the grass, and deliberately didn’t turn around.

“This is dangerous, John. We can’t keep meeting like this.”

He knew he should’ve declined. He knew it was a bad idea. And yet, it had been so long; they had been hiding for so long. For the first few months, it was all about desperately escaping and acclimatizing to his new cover, and wondering if the rest of the team was even alive, the pain of loneliness worse than the ache of healing bullet wound. And then, meeting John, knowing he was alive and well, and yet there being a distance between them that seemed impossible to cross.

So yes, it wasn’t the wisest of decisions, choosing to meet here like this, and so often. But he was only human.

He missed John.

“Why are we here?” He turned around, pretending he wanted this meeting to be over quickly, when what he really wanted was the time to stop so that he could have this for a bit longer: the sight of slight stubble on John’s cheek, his barely there smile, his beloved features, filled a void inside him. John was sprawled on the bench, one of his arms extended behind Harold, and the heat emanating from that casual touch thawed some of the ice that had been accumulating in his heart ever since Samaritan came online.

He would be content to just sit here, and watch the eons go by.

“I want my old job back,” John stated, as he had every other time they had met. “Even though the hours were atrocious, the work was rewarding.” The corners of John’s lip quirked, and Harold had to press his own lips together tightly because they itched to mimic it, “And I find I prefer my old boss a lot more.”

Harold let his eyes show his dismay. He wanted that too, and yet. “I told you. It’s not possible. There is no going back. The world as we know it, has changed.”

“Alright.” John nodded, “We can’t have it all back. I get it. But we can recreate some of it.”

His face was earnest, pleading, and it broke Harold’s heart. “We can’t. We can’t do anything to become suspicious.”

“Look around you Harold. There’s nothing suspicious about two men sitting on a park bench.”

Harold did. He looked. It was still early, so some of the benches were empty, but most were filled with people relaxing, talking companionably. Without the machine, he would not be able to find anything anomalous about any of their behavior. They all looked perfectly normal… just like Harold and John would to Samaritan’s eyes.

There was nothing more mundane than two friends having an afternoon chat. Harold remembered when he was teaching the machine, he always tended to overlook the people who looked comfortable in company. The only thing more mundane was…

Harold thought about reckless decisions, and leaping off the bridges. He thought about opened Pandora’s boxes, and knew that it was impossible to put what they used to have together- what they felt- back into the box. What, after all, was hope for surviving, when you had stopped feeling alive?

Before he could overthink it, he leaned towards John, intent clear in his eyes, and felt a smile tug at his lips at the shock written on his face. This time, he let the smile appear, as he leaned closer still, cupped John’s cheek and pressed their lips together.

He felt John’s shaky exhale on his skin, the heat of it searing him, startlingly intense after going without it for so long… after yearning for it for so long. John’s hand moved from the back of the bench to wrap around him, as he melted into the touch, lingering. As far as kisses went, this might have been the chastest one Harold had ever exchanged, and yet...

The world as they know it, had ended. Their lives, their mission, their home… it was all over. But if Harold could have this, if he could keep this, he might just be able to live.

“I thought we were trying to be inconspicuous.” John’s thumb stroking his shoulder was a testament to how much he didn’t mind this change of events. Harold could understand the feeling. If Samaritan’s operatives caught them because of this… he had an inkling that he wouldn’t regret it. “Being cautious.”

Harold caressed John’s cheek, his eyes fond. “Maybe you’re right, and they won’t find us. Maybe they will. Either way, I refuse to play by their rules anymore. ”

Because as long as they were together, Harold was invincible.

_Let them come._


	35. Analgesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold gets injured, and John scowls a lot, until Harold lets him *kiss it better.*  
> UTTER FLUFF. I can't summary it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was in mood for writing something delightfully fluffy, so here we are.

Harold was no stranger to pain. It had been his constant, unwanted and unsolicited, companion for the past many years, and he had learned to live with it. But there was a difference between the ache in your hip that made sleep difficult and staying awake worse, and the agony of a bullet tearing through your flesh.

All things considered, he thought he was doing pretty well, hardly making a noise as John stitched his wound with quick and efficient moves. What was more concerning was the pained scowl on his partner’s face, the way his forehead was wrinkled and his mouth a tight line. Harold knew for a fact that John had not suffered any injuries in this skirmish, and could very well decipher the reason for those expressions. He closed his eyes fondly, wishing the ex-op ever showed this much concern about his own well-being.

Still, when John wiped his wound with a sterile gauze and placed the bandage on top of it, Harold couldn’t help but let out sigh of relief. He couldn’t be blamed if he did not enjoy the feeling of a needle going in and out of his skin, and the disturbingly foreign pull of the thread approximating the edges.

“Alright?” John asked, his voice rough.

Harold shifted his arm, testing. The movement was painful, and his range would be reduced until the wound healed, but it wasn’t unbearable. “It will do.”

He looked up at his partner, and saw how a dark gloom was clouding his face. Harold tried to smile, to reassure him and made to reach out and smooth those wrinkles on his forehead. He had to abandon that move with a wince a moment later, the pain returning when he tried to raise his arm.

John’s hand was on his shoulder immediately, steadying him as he breathed through the pain. “Want me to kiss it better, Finch?”

It was John’s distinctive brand of self-deprecating humor, but Harold stared at his troubled face and deliberated. Then, not breaking eye contact, he nodded, relishing the look of shock on John’s face. “That would not be unwelcome.”

John’s eyes searched his face, looking for the catch- because Harold’s humor could be as dry as his- and then shook his head, a genuine smile on his face this time. “Just when I think I know you, Finch…”

Harold had to smirk at that. He prided in being unpredictable, and was delighted that he could still surprise John, who had made it his mission to peel back all the layers he had learned to hide himself behind over the years. John looked at him for permission again, ever concerned about his consent, and then bent slowly to press his lips over the bandage, light and reverent. There was nothing staged about the sigh of pleasure Harold let out, even if he could hardly feel anything.

“Again?” John glanced up at him through his eyelashes, his breath warming Harold’s skin.

“If you’re amenable.”

John chuckled, and the sound warmed Harold’s soul, before pressing another kiss, careful not to put too much pressure and hurt Harold, and then another.

Harold let his eyes close, enjoying it for a moment, before opening them slightly and peeking at John. “I think it would be more effective if you would come here.” With that, Harold tangled his fingers in John’s hair, pulling him up so that he could capture his lips in a kiss. John was all too happy to comply with his request.

When Harold could think, much later, he wondered if there was any research about the use of kisses for pain relief. John’s kisses to be more exact. Because they were surprisingly potent and effective.

He found that he wasn’t willing to share them anyway.


	36. (Un)fair play.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For "the way you said I love you" meme, and prompt of _"With a shuddering gasp"_
> 
> In other words, I felt inclined to write some shameless smut. And here we are. Rinch. Explicit.

John’s ragged breath against his nape made him shiver.

“Mr. Reese…”

His words were lost in a moan when John kitten licked the juncture of his neck and shoulder, the hint of teeth a cruel tease.

“Harold.” John’s voice was a sigh, warm and inviting, and Harold felt himself melt even more, even as the intensity of the need built further in the base of his spine.

John had spent the evening taking time in plying Harold loose him with tender kisses, and then opening him up with his tongue, followed by his fingers. Then, he had leaned against the headboard and let Harold lower himself on his length, until they were as close as was physically possible: John’s chest plastered against Harold’s back, John’s arms wrapping around him tightly, and his nose pressed against Harold’s neck, breathing him in.

That was half an hour ago.

“Mr. Reese! The expected course of action when in this position is for you to move.”

John pressed a kiss behind his ear, and Harold could feel John’s smile against his skin. “Don’t want to. Like this.”

Harold made a frustrated sound, trying to take matters into his own hands, but the way John had wrapped his arms around him did not leave Harold with any wriggle room. He slumped back, into the warm, humid heat of the body behind him, wanting more but unable to do anything about it.

“You are being irrational.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. “I like being this close to you, around you… _inside_ you. And despite your protests, you like it too.”

Harold moaned at the words, rocking slightly. He couldn’t deny that he liked it, but he liked it more when John was not determined to tease him until he was out of his mind.

“Please.”

“You feel so good.” John seemed to be deaf to his pleas. Harold bent his neck, giving John’s wandering lips more skin to sample, and considered his options.

He could let John set the pace, let John take him apart until he wouldn’t even be able to remember his name. Harold had to admit the thought was tempting, but he didn’t feel like caving. Not today.

“John.” Harold let his voice get rough, deliberately let his control slip, and could feel the way John shuddered. He smiled, letting the heady feeling of the power he had over John fill his senses, and clenched.

The choked gasp and the way John rolled his hips was extremely gratifying.

“Harold…” There was a warning in John’s tone, but it was lost behind the pleasure.

“You’re right. I do like it.” He had gotten used to the length inside him in the time John had spent keeping them still, and the way his inner walls squeezed around the cock were a startling reminder of it, of how good it felt. “I love it. Love the feeling of you inside me.”

He rhythmically clenched and relaxed the muscles of his anus, overwhelmed by the sparks of pleasure travelling up his spine. But even that felt insignificant compared to the way John’s body was trembling, barely hanging onto the control. Harold wanted to see it shatter.

“All the strength and violence, all that power, and yet here you are.” He didn’t have to fake the awe in his voice, but he knew his next word was unfair. “Mine.”

“Fuck.” John cursed heartily, and thrust inside him, making moan and laugh in the same breath.

“But that’s not all, is it-” John’s hold had loosened enough that Harold could move, rocking on top of John, meeting his thrusts.

“Stop talking.” John ordered, but it sounded more like a plea to do just the opposite. So Harold complied.

“It’s not just that you’re mine. _Mine_.” It was a wonder how the words affected John, no matter how many times Harold repeated it. The man was so desperate to belong somewhere, to someone, that it broke something in Harold’s heart. Harold couldn’t believe _he_ was what John chose to belong to, but he was immensely grateful for it.

“Harold…” John hands were gripping his hips now, moving him along with his thrusts. If Harold wanted to touch himself, nothing was holding him back, but his mind was on other things.

“Because ownership works both ways. Because I am yours too.”

John tensed, his fingers on Harold’s hips tightened- there would be bruises there later, which John would apologize for but Harold would secretly love- and his breath caught. A moment later he trembled, spilling inside Harold, and releasing his breath in a shuddering gasp. “I love you.”

Harold smiled at that. They had worked through so much baggage to reach this point, to have the words being said without fear of rejection, or of disbelief. “I love you, even though you are a manipulative, cheating bastard.” John pressed his forehead against Harold’s back and panted, breathlessly. Harold couldn’t help chuckling in response, not the least bit sorry.

He let John catch his breath, rubbing his hands gently on the arms around him, calming him down. When John’s breath evened out, Harold turned slightly, smiling at the bemused man. He was not going to apologize for derailing John’s plans, not when the results were so fantastic.

“My turn now.”

John huffed out a fond laugh, kissing him on his lips, and gently maneuvered them until Harold was lying on the bed, with John leaning above him. “Let’s see what we can do about that,” John smirked, before kissing a path down his chest, his goal obvious.

Harold relaxed into the mattress, surrendering himself to the way John took his body as a battlefield and conquered it with ruthless efficiency.

**Author's Note:**

> Because this is a collection, the only way for me to know if someone enjoyed my newer story additions is if they comment . So like... the author needs validation! The author is horribly insecure. And the author will love you if you tell her if you enjoyed/didn't enjoy the new ficlet.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Resting (I-II)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11931285) by [merionees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merionees/pseuds/merionees)




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